Even leaves are not rustling outside.
No wind or rattling at the window.
Everything is dead, except for this broken clock.
Somehow it's alive and ticking on my nerves.
I should have been happy
that the world has passed on.
I hate mankind after all
and I am not on good terms with daylight.
I'm thinking of milk and coffee
thinking maybe it's not silence or insomnia.
Maybe I'm just depressed
jumbled like my thoughts.
Maybe the earth is still twirling
in its green and blue dress
but it's frustration that paralyzed my senses.
Perhaps I'm the mute one amid this tireless universe.
It could be that my heart has stopped
as I ran promptly with so many burdens.
Or its my brain that froze in this endless maze.
At least I'm certain about something, as I definitely know
how much I'll regret this long angry night
when I wake up in the early yellow morning.
I know I will manage to pull a smile on my face
and pierce my ears with some laughter.
After all, we all know coffee was never my cup of tea
and I have always slept in this sincere silence..
Silence is indeed deafening. I've been here myself lately. My home isn't filled with the laughter of my playing children, the dog doesn't bark at passersby, my wife doesn't scurry around preparing for the next morning... and it's the absence of these sounds that that speaks volumes to me; Screams to me just how much my life has changed and also how much I am missing. Every second that ticks by for me where I don't hear my children playing is a second that I've missed out on in their childhood.
This poem speaks to me, maybe in ways that you didn't intend.
I've always liked the sort of contradiction of silence being loud, of it sometimes being overwhelming. The whole concept in this piece of you wanting that concrete sound is thought-provoking. I've had times where the quiet is peaceful but then I focus too much on it, and it overtakes my thoughts and I want something consistent in the background to keep me grounded (if that makes any sense whatsoever).
You've created a truly bleak atmosphere in this, especially with lines where you assert plainly, without any question or doubt, "Everything is dead". But then there's the following stanzas where you don't know what to do with this "anger", this frustration of sleeplessness. Of not being able to articulate or understand or place your thoughts in a correct order.
That feeling of being lost yet not knowing why or how, perhaps our mind is always trying to faze us.... then forcing us to start anew and act as if nothing is wrong.
This felt like a freewrite and I hoped it sorted out some thoughts, or at least gave you the freedom to vent this frustration!