I sit alone in a room,
headphones resting unused around my neck.
The room is quiet but the world is still brimming with sound:
The resounding chords of a clock—
six chimes for six hours past noon.
The tinny squeak of the washing machine—
a squeak that surely implies constant motion.
A distant fan blowing—
its dull hum blending seamlessly into the ether.
The tap tap tapping of my own hands—
sounding very productive indeed.
And, of course, cars—
Buzzing and sometimes whooshing
(motorcycles roaring)
through one ear and out the other,
left to right, right to left,
though I can hardly tell the difference.
All this,
in an entirely silent room.
YOU ARE READING
Counting Down the Days
PoetryIt is the summer before I leave for college, and I am staring into the empty abyss before me, wondering what to do with my life. In this collection, I am challenging myself to write something every day (now adjusted to every 2-3 days). I may write p...
