This urge to speak—
how can I take part
in my life if I remain quiet?
So I talk into my days—I look
swell, and I’m ready to bare my heart.
I speak
my first words, and they’re a
laugh-riot.
I use every art
to justify not remaining quiet.
But my get-along springs a
leak
if I don't write
and tell you how it feels to need to speak.
And you say, “OK, but what?”
And I’m just standing holding the spigot
open, while you yearn for quiet.
to be Gulliver on Lilliput.
Lord, what a noise I make when I speak!
I’ll sing to be quiet.
