Everybody speaks
like they are giving the speech at the end of a movie
precisely measured
perfectly metered
impassioned
emotioned
baby talk
Pure drivel
A prayer to
self indulgence
faux intelligence
served on a platter
of inconsistent volume
and movie anti hero charm
And gone
Gone is the thing which makes each person
great and small
themselves
I consider it a triumph
for a mouse to speak with
a rodents diminutive speech
and not the trumpet of an elephant
And most of all
I consider my own voice
the ringing in my ears
the self regulated song of myself
I struggle to tally my breaths and sentences
and hope that simple arithmetic does not prove
my only reason for breathing
is to endlessly use a voice
which
I consider foul
distasteful
tinny
And over utilized
I long to be a star of the silent film
The Golden Age of Hollywood
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