Shut Trapped

There is something to be said about things that don't get said. There are undoubtedly infinitesimal little tweaks in between verses composed in the minds that never find their ways out of lips or onto surfaces screaming with text. These seemingly innocent tiny little edits must eventually end up somewheres, but the question is where?

If it's tiny enough, maybe nowhere somewhere in the dark recesses of forgotten thoughts of baby steps and embarrassing moments, surfacing sometime after ten million gallons of alcohol or during a deepest, most troublesome sleep. Too tiny, a hiccup in the middle of REM, a slurr of a slip of a tongue. Watch out that it doesn't multiply, else it'll seep through cracks on gritted teeth and clenched jaws. Then those edits become one big raging cuss burning ears and paper with its venom.

And what if it's care? Folded neatly into squares and tucked tightly into corners away from all things fragile and alive, carefully sealed, so that all that is left is crisp, white and taut devoid of richness and flavour. It is plastic that bends and stays cool and warm in the same instance. No soul. No life. It is engineering sprouting thoughts and spewing words that clink on a shiny hard surface. Dead from the moment of conception.

There is something to be said about things that don't get said. The earth has ears and the winds answer back. Talk to trees and leaves for the sun shines on all even if it only rains on some. Words were never meant to be quiet. Otherwise, they'd be punctuation.