Silence Has No Meaning

Sat in a world,
Filled with noise and conversation,
My brain screams for silence.
A reprieve from the nonsense,
From the clutter and disarray.
To be sat in contemplation,
Reflection of current states,
Past events and future deeds.
I yearn for time and peace,
To sit and ponder,
To think about what my life really means,
What my actions will incur,
Where my choices will lead.
Is it dumb luck?
Or I am exercising control?
Is it nature or nurture?
Fact or fiction?
What is the meaning of everything?
Sat in a room filled with chatter,
People making idle small talk,
I pray for silence.
For people to keep and hold,
In all of the pointless natter,
To really think about the words,
The meanings and the purpose,
For speech is a gift misused,
And silence is a word often abused.
There is no need for silence to be filled,
For it to be disgraced,
By the social nervousness,
And the discomfort,
That shrouds its being.
Sometimes, to sit together,
With no words,
Is all we need.
Sat in a stadium full of fans,
Their shouting and blaring,
Then we are asked for silence.
To bow our heads and pay respects,
For many have fallen,
And congregation is the only time,
The only place,
For us to all fall silent,
Even though that time is limited.
Should silence truly be for the fallen?
And owed to the dead?
If so, then why are we all so loud!
Why are we all so concerned?
So confused at those in silence?
Sat in a theatre,
Where noise is precise,
And I hang on the silence.
Perfect moments, movements and words,
All extenuated, pronounced, explained,
By those simple moments.
Those eloquent pauses,
Where no sound is present.
It is like some kind of god,
Has done the spring cleaning,
Removed all the unnecessary babble,
And allowed us to notice the value,
Of that which is left unsaid.
And the audience,
From kindness and respect,
Sit there, eyes fixated,
Focused and bewitched,
All in silence.
Sat up in bed,
The streets but barren and calm,
I hate the silence.
I long for a melody to take my ear,
And softly sing me to sleep.
A gentle noise,
Twisted in the words of a lullaby.
For I hate this silence,
For silence is empty.
Silence is nothing.
Silence has no meaning,
Yet it purposefully bothers me,
Meaningfully taunts me,
Beckons me and turns me away.
It may have no meaning,
But it is far from purposeless.

In The Rain

He stands in the rain,
Palms up to the sky,
and he SCREAMS.

Water rolls down his skin,
tracing new paths on old,
As the sky cries his tears.

His chesty breath, hitches,
says not but one word,
why?.. must the clouds collapse?

Does the sky know?
Is this pain mutual?
He just stands there.

All of lives work,
Summed up in one thing...
This man in the rain.

He begins to laugh,
perhaps it's insanity?
Or is he sanity in action?

I don't know for sure,
but there's one thing I do...
He just stands. In the rain.


Baby steps,
What a contorted phrase,
A strange way of putting things,
It's twisted, messed up,
Why when you take things slowly
Do you take baby steps?
Babies don't walk,
They have nowhere to go,
Everything is brought to them,
Everything is handed, gifted, given.
When you take baby steps,
It's never just handed to you.
It's never just gifted.
It's never just given.
What a stupid phrase.

Musings of a Rail-Goer

Sat on another train,
Going to a go between station,
A place I've no meaning to visit,
Yet my hand is forced.
My ticket dictates the destination,
I pay the fare once,
To sit upon two trains,
And wait between a
Fifth or sixth of an hour.
This dead time, I detest,
I must pay the luxury of it.

Sat inside the metal box,
I pass through the wind tunnel,
Sometimes it is painted,
With leaves and berries,
Other times with red bricks.
Either way, the noise: inescapable.
The engines growl without clarity,
A murmured noise only the tracks,
With heir incomprehensible gabble,
Can claim to understand.
The two communicate loudly,
Exchanging indifferent noises.
One can only assume
That they are battling vocally.

There is nothing melodic about trains,
Their speed far too varied,
By the time the metronome
Is able to match its tempo,
The engine slurs to legato.
Should one ride by an open window,
You'll hear the violins of the rail orchestra,
Screaming in protest.
Much like an athletes muscles,
Right after vigorous training.
Unpleasant to say the least.

To try and sit still - impossible,
One is thrown like a rag doll.
To and fro, as though a puppet.
I often wonder if that's why,
Does this franchise see us as puppets?
Is that why ticket prices yo-yo?
To pull our wallet strings,
And make us dig into our pockets?
Timetables are manipulated,
To prevent us demanding refunds,
Which their policies deny anyway.
They cram us in like sardines,
Airtight seals, it preserves our freshness.

If one reserves a seat today,
They have paid for the luxury,
That exclusive chance,
To engage in an altercation.
The man in your seat,
He also paid his fare,
He too deserves a seat.
The journey of hours and more,
Dictates he should be seated
For at least six sevenths of it.
But you paid for that argument,
Fooled into believing your set is guaranteed.