Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

If You Do Not Listen

Custom User Avatar
More by this author
If you do not listen I will not speak.
Pushed, shoved, grabbed by the spine,
Tossed around the room like a bean-bag.
I cringe at the site of eyes glazing over me.
Though only their pupils move,
Their frozen bodies match the temperature of mine,
Radiating into the cool air, making me shiver.
Life, even at the youngest of age, can be cruel.
Single words, gestures, so meaningless,
That sting like pepper spray when done.
They see at me but don’t really look.
Sometimes there is more then what meets the eye,
Or what bland first impression I thrust upon myself.
To them I am no one, a face in the crowd,
Drifting with the current,
I’m what’s-her-name,
With eyes as easy to remember as a single fork,
In a drawer ample with silverware.
The side of me cloaked from their eyes,
Would keep them to the edge of their seats.
The type of person who could put a beat to any tune,
Tune into any song.
Who can read, read for hours.
Who can collapse to their knees,
Then jump to the height they were at before,
And thrive further into success,
Willing to tribute time, energy, into anything I feel is worth while,
Benefiting myself and the world as one.
Without the other, we are nothing.
Most of all I am a poet.
But if you do not listen, I will not speak.
Some know me as the quiet girl,
Who completes her work in a moment’s time,
Who may fall behind but catches up only to travel above and beyond.
Behind the scenes, I am loud, oozing endurance,
From every part of my body.
Who can take something concrete,
And make it an abstract sensation.
That sends chills up your arms,
And goose bumps down your legs.
I am human. Just like you.
And I have flaws, but I display them openly on a canvas,
Stricken with colors so bright,
They’re radiant with beauty,
They’re difficult to miss.
I have tantrums, but I roll over them
Like the ocean rolls over grains of sand,
Squishing under wet feet on pale shores.
I have great time on my hands,
So much so that it drips between my fingers.
Yet I make use of it and never lose motion,
Like a cloud always drifts in the sky.
Until it rains.
It pours down, droplets of water,
Pelting with such speed their eager to hit ground,
Of which I stand today telling you.
If you do not listen, I will not speak.
If I can’t get my point across,
Speak to open the minds of those who are sealed,
Clasped with a key lost with age,
Glued with a heart of cement that refuses,
To pump oxygen through their body,
Letting thoughts weave into their heads,
Understand my kosher words,
I am trying to make them not hear, but watch.
Watch me keep quiet,
Watch me watch you ignore what you must know.
But when you’re ajar, naked, ready to be clothed,
With my ideas, inspirations,
Reasoning and viewpoint,
I will, too, be there for you.
Though you brush me off now like pollen,
From a Bleeding Heart.
Lingering on the shoulder of your shirt.
Until the day comes and you wonder in broad daylight,
What my voice sounds like,
I promise you.
If you do not listen, I will not speak.




Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!




Site Feedback