In These Small Sounds
These walls hear dreams.
As one goes, white noise follows
Into these rooms, and it reverberates
From ceiling to
Corner and corner and
Back again.
Louder, it grows
As notes add on.
In the bare brush of feet
Along this carpet,
In the faint strains
Of this song or another,
In the cracking of these
Sore knuckles,
In the pre-recorded applause
Of late night with
Insert name here,
In the rustle of weight
Shifting and sheets moving,
In the bangs of falling things
And muffled curses from
Hurting others,
In the clicking of a pen
And the jingle of
Keys,
In the rush of a door
Slam shaking the foundation,
In the scraping of a fork
And drip of
A leaky faucet,
In the riotous laughter
Outnumbered by the
Soft pull of tissues
From a box,
Collectively it is the whole of
An existence.
Decipher the static and
All you will hear
Is a life, in these
Small sounds.
Roommate
I have a roommate
who believes she lives alone
Though I've never made
my presence known to her
She finds comfort in me
and talks to me as if
she knew I was listening
I can feel her staring at me
Sometimes for what
seems like hours
Searching for something
beneath the white paint
If I could only leave this room
I'd go out and find
her the help she needs
I hear it all
The 1 am drunkenness
The 2 am screaming
The 3 am crying
The 4 am pleas
But what I hear the most
is the silence while she
fights the battle within
Sponges and Plaster
these walls collect sound
in the plaster,
storing echoes as secrets
that leak out slow
over time like the
dust of tears in the dark
and the lies I tell myself
before giving up on the day,
the strain in my voice,
when I remember words
I wish I'd kept as they
cast a shadow over conscience,
these walls know the ghost
of me, though
I have a hammer, and
the urge to deafen,
a paintbrush and the desire
to suffocate.
Every Night, and Indefinitely
Dear Readers:
Watch now, as we listen closely to our reclusive subject reciting her poetry. She is siting two-fisted with her paper and pen, and a glass of wine. She considers her unraveling sanity night after night. As the moon rises, her intellect spins. She is either going mad or perhaps she is slightly touched. She is indeed overwhelmed by her senses fusing. Irregardless, she is different and obsessed with the human condition. She ruminates with manic creativity over the injustices of humanity, but hope lingers nonetheless. She is haunted, but feeds incessantly on such. Her empathy and pain duel, and the outcome is yet to be determined:
These walls have
Metaphorical stones
My personal Veil of Jericho
I am counting in sevens
A separation from
My innate discomforts and
Mainstream society
My synesthesia shouts in shades of grey
And these walls offer
An isolated haven
Found within and
Built for
My emotional protection
To discern my condition
Away from the noise
Confined to myself and
With all triggers removed
My intimate space is
Safe and solitary
Quietly entombing
In body and mind
And I pace within
This is my mausoleum
The flesh of my wit
Accompanied only
By a cacophony of
Voices weeping
[This is not altogether symbolic, but provides some truth to the subject's fear of pending insanity.]
For mercy
In poetic fragments
Inside my brain, and
The Goddess of Eris --
With Phobos and
Deimos, are ready
To protect me
Exposing the two-faced
To the light, but
In the sanctity of my darkness
Fighting demons
On my own behalf
Borne from a brokenness
My vulnerability shattered like glass
Coupled with
The massive weight of
My empathy pulsing
Disproportionate and consuming
My disfigured changeling
And torn between
The fibers of wool
Now swaddling me
With carnal suffocation
[With regard to matters of the heart, you see here: the subject's undoing is taking place in slow motion.]
To the lovers who scalped me,
And harvested my soul:
You left me for dead.
And I can rest
Within these walls
I am able to heal
[Contradictorily, the subject still ends with hope.]
Madness
Those white walls of my room know everything. They have heard my sorrowful sobs and my hollow laughter. They have heard me weeping and my agonising yowl. They've heard me scream and writhe in pain. They've not seen it, but they've heard my loneliness when the symphony of silence played louder than the ticking of the old clock. They have heard my anger as it erupted like a dormant volcano, filling the room with incoherent words. They have heard my insanity as my tears suddenly turned into a maniac's laugh.
A laugh that resonated time and again reminding me how I had let my sanity slip away with time.
Yet,
They choose to remain silent, after all I have suffered, they choose not to speak. They've bore the pain of the punches I threw at them, the way my nailed clawed at them, tearing away the white wallpaper away. The way I smeared the thick red blood that seeped out of my wounds. They remained silent when I talked about my frets and twinges. They made me wonder if they were friends who knew that what I was suffering from or foes who were secretly judging my existence.
Soon enough.
I saw ears.
Here and there and everywhere.
I giggled at my madness.
Brainwalls
Sometimes when I'm alone at night
when the space sneaks in between
my brain
turns off
and my mind turns on.
And always, it occurs to me, again.
That the only thing that I know in life to be true -
Is that THIS reality
and everything that comes with it
has no name
has no number
has no locus
has no bounding box
except the ones that we assign
which are nothing more than memories
inside the walls of a maker's mind.
Confined
On the darkest days these walls would hear my exhausted sighs.
Silence would rip apart the space where my heart has cried.
Madness is my mentor and these walls would surely hear me try.
Talking to myself they hear my lies;
I spend too much time complimenting my lack of sanity filled eyes.
And today scattered on the floor lay my mind.
Within the strokes I’m painting not only to pass time.
Each color -every line the blackness inside unbinds.
If the walls could hear what I’m hearing they’d hear my spirit shrieking.
So I resort to picking up a paint brush and painting.
’Cause when my heart kisses the canvas I’m no longer deteriorating.
Daytime dreaming -you see the darkness is fading.
The walls will tell you they hear my fears receding.
In the canvas my soul is healing.
But surely the walls also see it bleeding.
Slicing Truth Like Biscuits
I am the mighty wall
you created
to shelter you
from Death climbing
baseboards of your existence.
My ears hearken to the words
of your lost soul.
Your scattered torso parts
are exposed
to my hungry naked eyes.
I hear and touch the drippings
of your notoriety, marching
in a formation of butchered
and shanghaied thoughts.
Your rancid flesh is spewed
by wails of debasement
as cruelty sticks
to my walls like Velcro.
You yell to my corners
but I can only rubberneck
as I unlock your filthy codes
with my listening key
and find your secrets.
A sodden liquor flows
from your reservoir,
adding to my burden,
shoring up
your angry thoughts.
You slice truth
like biscuits to my
gaping mouth,
anchored in my walls,
leading to your tomb
where I can no longer
H E A R Y O U !
concrete voyeurs
our conversation today
made my walls
regret having ears
powerless to intervene
but
forced to listen
today my walls hear doubt
as I recite
your explanations
through my tears
as though somehow
my repeating them
will make them true
today my walls hear vulnerability
ashamed/defeated sobs
once I heard the door shut
usually reserved
for eight walls in total
the four of my bedroom
and the four of my shower
right now my walls hear fear (because it does have a sound)
it’s my wheezing through
a tightened chest
and the sound of my inhaler
as though somehow
asthma is the reason
I can’t breathe
Schizophrenia
Dear God,
Thank you for this life that I have. Thank you for this beautiful house, and I praise you for the creation of my lovely family and wonderful friends.
I'm sorry to have to ask you about this...
Lord, they're listening!
Now, yesterday, tomorrow they hear.
They hear the music I play, the words I speak in your blessed name, they hear all.
Now, Lord, I wouldn't mind at all if there wasn't a major problem with that. I'm very grateful for this house, after all.
But...
The ears are tripping over the visitors. Whenever people come around, they are first spooked by the colour of the walls. Then they look closer and are terrified by the ears poking out. They'll run and call me a witch, and then the ears move.
They jiggle with laughter.
Lord, the walls are making me lonely. I feel like I can barely say this aloud because they are listening, they are listening.
What if they are watching too?
Are they conspiring to kill me?
Drown me in their earwax?
Lord, I am afraid!
The walls hear all!
Amen
P.S Please hurry.