Here's a poem. Sometimes poetry is all we have.
White Noise
by Chuck Baudelaire
I poured it out.
On the floor.
Down the drain.
Into your ear.
I spilled
The contents of my heart,
The volume of a bottle,
And they simply swirled and drained
As if they were the same.
Perhaps my senses will matter once more
If anyone remains
To receive my signals
When I resume transmissions.
Or maybe it doesn't matter if anyone receives.
To speak to the void
Is better than gaping dumbly to the multitudes.
I plan to shout
As soon as I am able.
There are those listening
ReplyDeleteThose who await your words
And who will catch you
If you fall.
They have you in their minds too
Listen
And you will hear them calling
Your name.
What you pour out some of us are prepared to refill.
ReplyDelete