What Silence Keeps

Silent.
A silent mistake.
Silent.
A beautiful pain.

Tell me the smiles and candy you dreamed of.
Tell me about the thunder and lightning that made you hide.
Please tell me the silent feelings you keep hidden,
and the numb moments everyone passed by.

No one understands the feeling of drowning
until they're pushed under.

Talking to a brick.
Talking to a sponge.
Looking at a mirror.
Looking at a reflection.

An ocean.
A sea.

Different, yet the same dreams.
Lightning or rain.
Umbrella or dance.

The smell of candle wax and a burnt wick.
Paint on your hands and in your hair.
Water half-drunk and a cookie half-eaten.
Books on the shelf, half-read but still open.

Poetry hanging in the air,
and a pen lying on the ground.

A desk filled with thoughts of nothing,
and every word hangs around,
waiting to be pulled down
and stapled to the page.

A poet stuck between reality and imagination.
A dreamer stuck in dreamland instead of life.
And no one questions which one is right.

Half full.
Half empty.
The glass still remains.

What happened to understanding?

Talking to be heard.
Listening to learn.

What happened to deep oceans of words?

What happened to conversations worth more than five minutes of "Hmm" and "Yeah"?

What happened to "Tell me more"?

Are they forgotten,
or drifting through space,

Waiting to be pulled back and rescued,
waiting to be asked patiently?

I wonder what happened to communicating,
to speaking with feeling instead of abrupt words
that are venomous and ugly.

What happened to tone and gentleness?

What happened to deep conversations?

Did they survive?