So often people that don’t know me
And even people that do
Smile down at my small frame and say
“You’re so quiet.”
But what do they mean?
Because sometimes I feel like there’s something at my core
That is constantly combusting,
a continuous explosion of energy and sound
and if I don’t give it a constant outlet the pressure will
blow me apart.
And few things explode quietly.
No, its sound waves boom in my blood like thumping bass
when my head overflows with poetry my pencil can’t spit out
fast enough
when the music I hear fills my lungs with more electricity
than air
And the electricity expands into blinding light that
illuminates me from the inside out
it feels like no act of self-expression will be enough
to release the screams and the song and the speech of my
soul,
As if it will burst out like air from a paper bag someone’s
squeezing.
So it’s funny that people call me quiet
When really, I am so loud.
