by Shaina Clingempeel
Cheers to the song of the soft-spoken.
The man without the megaphone.
No words escape from his clever tongue.
So society banishes him to obscurity,
Carelessly tossing his quill up in flames.
And just as my rebel soul has found,
Only the spoken words resound.
Paralyzed by the piercing limelight,
I hear whispers ringing louder than my cries.
As life passes perilously by,
And I thrive behind the curtain.
Tumbling–aimlessly through space and time,
I am blamed for residing in my own mind,
I am the cameraman.
But the fire in my soul burns bright.
Brighter than that of those of stage,
And into the night’s darkest hour.
In which my words dissolve rapidly.
Without so much as an echo.
Amidst your nonsense strings of syllables
To which people listen.
So scream those syllables into a megaphone,
Speak aloud; scare the crowd into stunned silence.
Raise your voice to be heard, speaking without saying a word.
As you sell your soul for that tragic trade.
Where passion evades your existence.
And as for me, I have it in spades,
But only the spoken words resound.