I'm not ignorant, at least it's not my intention, I just don't talk unless I feel I have something worthwhile to say. Instead I bury my words, drag them into a hole and cover them, I write my thoughts, I allow my pen to voice my opinions and insecurities. It's voice unwavering, speaking confidently, sure of its purpose, positive that its indiscretion is worthy of the air it consumes.

My emotions are too strong and highly strung for me to word them sufficiently at a moments notice, my brain is not equipped to process the instantaneous rawness I feel. Wonder what is wrong with me and I will be unable to tell you, my mouth will remain silent, even though my mind is screeching at me, my tongue will cease to work all energies being transferred to my hand and my over consuming mentality.

I deal with problems differently, I sit and ponder, I cry, I smile, I sob, I laugh and I write. My page is my voice, my pen is my feeling, ink is no longer ink, it is tears, it is the vulnerablity I feel being leaked from my body and soul. Loss becomes a morbid story, Loneliness becomes a tale of self discovery, and happiness becomes a thought provoking piece, with words that grin.

Train your ears to my silence, that sigh is another story, the pursing of my lips is another misadventure and my affirmation of my happiness is the sound of my brain recognising yet another surge of my blood.

I'm not silent, you just can't hear me.