The noise, of silence
a constant, nothing g
The damage it does,
It doesn't
When
Your appreciated not aart of
Your environment, your family, your life
The societal against the question you consistintly ask,any questions all questions
And everybody is notified of my presents for their awareness.
I learned the quiet trick,and I'm someone to you
Nah
outside the where the daily friction consistently
Conspires the mind .
It wasn't a choice made
more like the premeditated investment
of a genuine individual never it will be for us to have any future relationships for us to have any understanding or misunderstanding this now direction of the world seems unchanging
Our lives,
a from
a taunt until they snap.
I watched it all unfold,
day bleeding into night,dismissed not
Even wanted to be seen realt don't matter
Can't represent a name of any
This
night dissolving into another day,that
the same loops playing out.
Samething g next day
And somewhere in that endless replay,
the part of me down where feelings used to
Feel ,I guess ( I'm a feel nothing of you)
I do not claim superiority, never tried it was in the just,now I try to keep myself
only in the distance of for the sake of your smuttiningand
negativity,
On me
presses down on everything.
It is brutal, this constant pressure of human destructive stress,
a storm that never truly breaks,
just shifts its ugly shape.
I only tried to be a simple, breathing thing,
a mechanism designed for kindness,
for the gentle exchange of light.
My intentions were clean,
unburdened by the need for return,
never a calculated step toward causing hurt.
If shadows fell where I walked,
if a misstep caused a stumble in your path,
it was born of simple human blindness,
the inability to see around the next corner,
or perhaps,
It was simply the limit of what any person can truly hold or control in this crowded, rushing current.
The wrong done to me,
if there was any measure of it,
was filtered through fog.
Either I didn't see the knife,
or the hand that held it was simply obeying the clumsy architecture of being human—flawed, hurried, often unaware.
So now, I observe the tide.
It rushes in, it rushes out.
The energy expended on the ebb and flow,
the passion spent on battles I don't fight,
it barely registers on my internal gauge.
Nothing about this great, churning experiment—
this human life itself—
seems worth the expenditure of real sorrow anymore.
It is just weather now.
A necessary, loud environment.
And remain,
a silent watcher behind the monitor
by the need to fix,
or even to deeply feel,
the magnificent, exhausting futility of it all.
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