Drying Lips Part

Twenty-four hours, I want to withhold my lips.

Tell me why I should speak, there’s nothing to hear, and I’m tired.

Forgive the indifference it’s just a new day running an old way.

Expectations crumbled, passive voice mumbled if you make me speak.

Better not complain. Cruise control fully engaged. Dragging my body around. Looking for discoveries in a dead-end town.


Diary of nobody, talking nothing to an empty room.

Open mic night, ignored by a mop and broom.

It’s good to remember importance isn’t measured by feedback.

Trains travel via miles of tracks without acclaim.

So silence isn’t depressing as we are told.

Summer lovers understand after months fighting colds in cold.

Better not wish for words to fill an empty space. I better settle down to enjoy a peaceful place. Silence isn’t punishment after all. It’s a blessed time to recover from mental stimulation withdrawal.

Hush, hush.

Hush, what’s the rush to hear more? Always more.

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