Melancholy of the Mute

Well, as a child I mostly spoke inside my head.

I had conversations with the clouds, the dogs, the dead.

And they found me broken, that my tongue was coated lead.

But I just couldn't make my words make sense to them.

If you only listen with your ears... I can't get in.

And I spent my evenings pulling stars out of the sky.

And I'd arrange them on the lawn where I would lie.

And in the wind I'd taste the dreams of distant lives.

And I would dress myself up in them through the night.

While my folks would sleep in separate beds... and wonder why.

And through those days I was a ghost atop my chair.

My dad considered me a cross he had to bear.

And in my head I'd sing apologies and stare.

As my mom would hang the clothes across the line.

And she would try to keep the empty... from her eyes.

So then one afternoon I dressed myself alone.

I packed my pillowcase with everything I owned.

And in my head I said "goodbye," then I was gone.

And I set out on the heels of the unknown.

So my folks could have a new life of their own.

So that maybe I could find someone...

Who could hear the only words that I'd known.