Silence Is Deafening

By Lavance Jethro John

"You don't speak much, do you?"

My mind is my mouth. It utters on impulse. It whistles a familiar tune beneath sunshine. 

My mind is my nose. Nostalgic escapades frequent my nostrils, while tragedies evade my sinuses. 

My mind is my eye. It analyzes unfamiliar truth, balancing empathy with the system. 

My mind is my hand. Its tactile inquiries ripened the wisdom. 

My mind is my arm. Rise or fall, it extends the purpose.

My mind is my stomach. Feed me the nutrients you claim to present. 

My mind is my back, a spineless experiencer I am not.

My mind is my foot, the connection between life and uncertainty.

To answer your question, yes, I do talk much. You might not hear a voice, but maybe it's not meant for your ears. 

My mind speaks 1000 words, each one holding more depth than the next. 

My mind speaks 1000 words, each one rich in text. They complement each other in a dance of wit and will, none unarmed, but few intelligent enough to know their kill. 

My mind speaks 1000 words, and your name is one of them. It may not be the most important one, but it's there. Its impact can't be undone.

It speaks on paper, near podiums, alone...

It speaks idiotically in a certain zone 

It speaks with utmost ignorance, naivete blanketing 

It speaks with genuine intrigue, silence representing 

It speaks in sickness and health through bone and blood 

It speaks when nobody's looking, an authentic flood 

A flood of concepts and ideals...preaches to platitudes; though I will not drown, no matter what my purpose exudes. 

A mind is a voice. Listen to it occasionally. 

Above all else, it describes you beautifully

By Lavance Jethro John