I’m still getting used to this lion in my mouth.

But sometimes

the notion of seen and not heard

still aches in my chest,

despite the waterfall of words I seem to spout

whenever my lips part.

 

When you’re trying to stay silent,

some times it helps if you cover up the abscene

with something meaningless

and hollow,

like empty poetry.

 

Laughter is also good.

If you can laugh about it,

it can’t of been so bad.

 

But time can chip away at you if you let it.

Too much silence

can eat the soul of you completely.

Not matter how small

the seed.

 

If we just don’t mention it,

ignore it and carry on,

then it’s not that big of a deal

so why make a fuss.

 

Women always make a fuss.

 

At night I feel silly,

walking with my car keys turned

to the sharp edge of a key-chain,

cold and hard against my palm

 

Alone is when I think about the school corridor,

his face split in two with that sneer

as I tried edging past him,

never close enough to touch

but clear and looming

this way was no longer mine to go.

 

In the light of my own hallway

I drop keys, and bag, and shoes,

and every memory of him,

the other lurking moments too.

 

We don’t speak about those here,

we don’t like to make a fuss,

those are the things for silent, empty rooms,

and notepads destined to gather dust.

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I think if I was to write a collection of poetry then it would be called Words For Silent, Empty Rooms and I’d fill it with poems like Office Bitch and Legs Eleven.