How Nothing Screams, But All is Loud

In a house of silence,
The deepest sighs,
Exude the loudest vibrations.

Footsteps down the stairs,
Carry anger in their descent.
I can no longer decipher natural sound,
From intended hurt.

The closing of a cabinet,
Never seems to be just that.
It’s a muffled slam,
But in this house of silence,
Whispers may as well be yells.

How nothing screams,
But all is loud.

Upon entering a house haunted with history,
Of dead brothers,
American cells,
Russian righteousness,
And emotional hells,
I inhale,
As if oxygen can clog my ears,
And quickly ascend up those stairs.
Breathing again,
Only when my door has closed.

My sprints,
Have been mistaken for anger.
But I merely cannot stand the loud silence,
That tightens my chest.
I escape,
Before this tightness becomes frustration,
Frustration,
Anger.
Anger,
Holes in the walls.

This is panic around noise,
They’ve boiled it down to illness.
She said meditate through the sound.
Imagine that guitar in the basement,
Eliminate reaction.
But I hear the guitar in the basement,
Sound waves traveling through the vents.
Floorboards just not thick enough.
And by the time they reach me,
I no longer hear music.
I hear depression, anger, righteousness,
Of a man,
Hiding two floors below.

Sometimes I descend,
Make up reasons why the music must stop.
But I am a lover of music,
Just not a lover of that pain in my chest.

He told me I was sick,
And needed to see a doctor.
I visited many offices.
Until arriving there.
Where they looked at numbers of the blood pumping through my heart,
And told me,
My body has been poisoned by my mind,
Now in turn,
My body is driving my mind closer to insanity.
A cycle,
They say,
That must be broken.

But everyday,
I feel my chest tighten.
I imagine an innocent little heart,
That can take no more.
But I stand in a kitchen as my father laps the island until it is time to go to work,
There is no exchange of words.
Just a small room,
Full of loud silence.
My heart’s sigh,
Rattles the walls of my rib cage.
I imagine him not coming home,
And then,
Would I regret my silence,
For fear of where words may take us once more.

And how nothing screams,
But all is loud.