The Futility of Words

Sometimes I wonder why I still speak when there's so many reasons to not.

I wonder if a vow of silence would do some good.
Would it make a difference, when there's so much pain?

Speaking contributes to global cacophony.

Why do we speak so much?

So many judgments and transgressions occur from the flick of a flippant tongue.

We're constantly learning the errors of bygone words.
We go on accepting new insight into our lexicons.

We normalize trauma as if it were ever ‘normal’.
Jugements of values and morals.
Words-daggers of discontent
Aimed at others, uplift us, justify us, and still the world remains the same
Are words always impregnated with futility and pain?
Sometimes I stop and speak only to flowers in the garden- yellow chrysanthemums, dandelions, and clovers.
Is writing futile or fertile?
This seems uncertain.
Collections of dusty communications and recomposed emotions, lessons, and thoughts.

The more we speak
The more we regretfully reveal
Selling our sentiments

What is the utility in speech, when more so it causes disharmony?
What does writing allow that speaking does not?
The change to censor thought?
Instruments and poetry possess their players
Conversants of mystic realms and also of creation. easily with myself.
Assets of plurality.
Multiplicities that spite convention
frequencies and energies---
Vowed to silence
refusing to live conventionally
Noise and no movement
Stagnant bodies laid with excess energy, and no movement
Gorged with judgments, fears, and optimistic messages: our fallacy.
grammar semantics and a taxonomy of terms
Reproducing judgments that terrorise humanity.
Reproducing hate
What is in the absence of words?
How do we read a body and a mind-
if one can not advocate what they know and how they cry?

Published by Silent Singer

The Silent Singer

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