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A Kid Making Noise MAG
In engines and the wilderness
On water ripples and neon signs
About our blindnesses.
It deadens telephone wires
And subtly shortens the spoken word;
Syllables fading softly like a dying breath
Of parched throats and empty promises.
In our time, a decree has gone out
To excommunicate communication.
I know you will listen.
I don't know if it will matter.
Many times I have taken a stand
On high stone walls, where the breeze is best
And in windowless rooms, where the
Would be my own.
All to nothing; I have ink and a page, and
A hand to pick the lock of an incarcerated mind
And free from captivity the words
I cannot speak.
I have screamed and ranted,
Spewed double-edged swords and jagged barbed wires
Felt the chords buzzing in my throat.
But still it hibernates, under snow and rock.
So I will spill myself raw, like blood onto pages
And you will hear me then.