Sometimes, the words inside me are too much,
But I only want to share them with someone
Who matters to me as much as the words do.
The space where I was keeping them collapses,
And I'm staring at a pair of vacant eyes that has nothing to return.
So I can share, but I don't;
There is almost nothing as painful as
Giving bits of my soul away in sentences,
Then watching them land heard, but not listened to.
It's hard to believe that my point is still alive
When the sound dies so quickly.
I try to imagine that my pieces of honesty keep going
Until someone grabs them with an understanding
Past their surfaces of nouns and adjectives.
The words just keep expanding
Past the deaf mind I just wasted a confession on
And they dig and wander to some questioning soul
That at the very least enjoys the sound
Of someone asking the same big questions
And questioning the same little answers.
It's nothing equivalent to an actual conversation
But it's more than just being heard.