Studio Silence

I do not find comfort in silence. 
It forces me to concentrate on the heaviness of my breathing
and the weight of my words.
I do not want to worry
about what spills out of my system.

I do not find comfort in silence, 
so I’ve turned on the radio to listen to the crackle. 
The white noise
is like a symphony of utter confusion, 
whose frequency reigns loudest
in the mix of a million + warriors
wanting to be heard.

There is no such thing as studio silence. 
Souls do not get written into lyrics to be dropped by producers.
No amount of choruses can decode me.
I am not one to cut myself open with a clef
and sing to myself
a hymn of ignored texts
to the beat of stagnant, standoffish read receipts. 

Madness does not breed here. 
It is to be confused with the heartache
that leaves me questioning a million things at once, 
fighting frequencies
because nothing seems to be consistent  
besides the white noise
crackling in the back of my skull
fighting to punch songs out of my teeth.

My fingertips massage the radio knob
like the barrel of a loaded drum
kicking the tempo into something salvageable, 
there is nothing of garbage within my veins. 

It sounds like a tune you knew
from when you would sing from the top of your lungs
with a bottle of rum on a sinking ship
and you would pronounce to the world

“Alright, already we’ll all float on! Now don’t you worry we’ll all float on! 

Even if things end up a bit too heavy we’ll all float on!”
The tide drowns you out like a drunken disaster
and I try to reel you out just as you’ve ripped up the anchor.
There is no more steadiness in my step. 
You’ve washed up the beach
before my soul crash lands
onto a tarmac of blood and seashells. 
I can’t help but try to tune you out, 
but something about the salty brine on the
tips of your last words leave me speechless. 

I want nothing but a wet dream
of your saliva hitting my cheek
when I see you again, 
your love can do no wrong here.
Hold me closer in the abyss of your darkness. 
Let me lay in the wake of your sleep.
I have no problem dining with the dead, 
for I’ve shown up just a tad too late for their events
one too many times,
in crowded bus stops, 
and in the passenger seats of cars
housing shattered windows
in the folds of my skin. 

I do not find comfort in silence. 

There is a way to drive me insane. 
There is a way that madness can immigrate here. 
There is a breeding ground for implosion
and I hold too many flowers in my chest
to watch them wither and die.