Talking Mask

I was once a talker,


Because my words can do summer salts.

It was the only way

I was ever respected,

Ever truly heard.

Or so I told myself,

If my words were a book,

The most I got was a glancing skim.

When I saw the truth,

I stopped talking, interacting,


I put the poison of aimless rage on my mouth.

And I spat.

All of the half-interested interactions,

Hollow caring,

I did not discriminate

Hate on the kind

Hate on the cold.

When I deflated,

Empty of bubbling darkness,

I find myself peaceful in quiet.

And tired by talking,

To even my strongest allies and friends.

I am mending, healing, and growing

the wounds unseen and unspeakable.


Published by sickybeat

I am a writer with an extremely active imagination. I love learning answers to questions and what makes everything and everyone tick. I am a "Unique case, medically" if nothing else. I am flawed in my extreme aversion to failure (even when "success" isn't good for me,) but have come a long way in ditching the perfectionist mindset. I like people whose default setting toward others is compassion, an open mind, and honesty

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