The Stories in a Whisper

When I open my mouth, 

no sense comes out

like a radio playing static sound.


My words filter through ears

yet no one can hear

the things they've ignored all these years.


And to them, I'm a whisper in the noise:

someone who's afraid to raise her voice.

My words tumble through the air

but no one sees them floating there.


Voice is more than what we say:

More than who can hear us in any way.

We wear our words in our favorite sweaters:

they pour down our faces like tears in cold weather.


And they echo through the mountains that we've climbed,

and beat through all that we've left behind.

They whistle with the wind and run with our dreams

and waver with the things we wanted to be.


These are our stories,

loud and true:

all the things that we do.


These are our stories

that no one reads:

all the things that make us believe.


These are our stories

that I need to tell

because I don't whisper:

when I write, I yell.



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