Voiceless
And now my spoken word studders.
Ladened with the lack of coherence.
I am speaking, but in the only language I understand.
The only language I've allowed my lips to form.
I once sounded beautiful to foreign ears.
In this moment, I cannot be heard.
I can remember my scans for hidden approval webbed from
the sounds.
They weren't mutters like they are now.
My vocal chords didn't vibrate,
they pulsated with the arousal of syallabels.
I sounded beautiful.
It wasn't me who brought meaning to my intentions.
It was my audience.
They were never hesitant when their minds flickered with past experiences.
I was decoded and remembered through an intricate form of story telling.
I was never just a concept.
I am an airloom passed around from current events;
Too new to be legendary.
But today I am broken.
Too scattered to be understood;
I'll mouth my troubles and pray that you know how to read lips.
The deceptional syntax you've mirrored back at me is contageous.
So I'll chose to sit down and become silent.
But I am older now.
And I am the 99%.
My voice has been stolen from me.
My grandfather wisdom will never be heard.
Feeling comes from deep within your vocal chords, bursting from every dark crevass.
It's laced with dignity and limitless respect.
Having a voice says something even if your mind doesn't agree.
All five sences are in a class of their own, but they are taught the same lessons.
The ears listen as the lies grow.
The nose sniffs when the mood is sour.
The eyes see some sort of potiential.
The hands feel for boundaries that may be invisable.
But the mouth talks, proves, comforts, liberates.
It creates a positive barrier between thoughts and actions.
It's a tool, a priviledge, an outlet for other thriving "suppressed" concepts.
The struggle to find an outlet that would be a replica of everything it did is non-existant.
Along the way, realise that it would take more than one unit to do the job the voice has always done.
Voiceless, we are books; open to interperatations, hidden meanings, and prefaces.
We are more than just "Written or printed work consisting of pages glued or sewn together along one side and bound in covers."
No amount of adhesive could bind together our live's torn pages.
Only voices know how to narrate the true story.
For that reason, my voice is valuable enough to be fought for.
Do hear me when there isn't enough marrow in our bones to work or struggle.
Until then, take pride in silently watching us.
Ladened with the lack of coherence.
I am speaking, but in the only language I understand.
The only language I've allowed my lips to form.
I once sounded beautiful to foreign ears.
In this moment, I cannot be heard.
I can remember my scans for hidden approval webbed from
the sounds.
They weren't mutters like they are now.
My vocal chords didn't vibrate,
they pulsated with the arousal of syallabels.
I sounded beautiful.
It wasn't me who brought meaning to my intentions.
It was my audience.
They were never hesitant when their minds flickered with past experiences.
I was decoded and remembered through an intricate form of story telling.
I was never just a concept.
I am an airloom passed around from current events;
Too new to be legendary.
But today I am broken.
Too scattered to be understood;
I'll mouth my troubles and pray that you know how to read lips.
The deceptional syntax you've mirrored back at me is contageous.
So I'll chose to sit down and become silent.
But I am older now.
And I am the 99%.
My voice has been stolen from me.
My grandfather wisdom will never be heard.
Feeling comes from deep within your vocal chords, bursting from every dark crevass.
It's laced with dignity and limitless respect.
Having a voice says something even if your mind doesn't agree.
All five sences are in a class of their own, but they are taught the same lessons.
The ears listen as the lies grow.
The nose sniffs when the mood is sour.
The eyes see some sort of potiential.
The hands feel for boundaries that may be invisable.
But the mouth talks, proves, comforts, liberates.
It creates a positive barrier between thoughts and actions.
It's a tool, a priviledge, an outlet for other thriving "suppressed" concepts.
The struggle to find an outlet that would be a replica of everything it did is non-existant.
Along the way, realise that it would take more than one unit to do the job the voice has always done.
Voiceless, we are books; open to interperatations, hidden meanings, and prefaces.
We are more than just "Written or printed work consisting of pages glued or sewn together along one side and bound in covers."
No amount of adhesive could bind together our live's torn pages.
Only voices know how to narrate the true story.
For that reason, my voice is valuable enough to be fought for.
Do hear me when there isn't enough marrow in our bones to work or struggle.
Until then, take pride in silently watching us.