Growing up a quiet kid wasn’t a choice I made but a choice others made,
I chose, to let others talk for me, for them to speak the words my haunted lips wouldn’t say.
Yet they never got my tone nor implication, for how were they supposed to know what I meant with only my eyes for communication?
I suppose it was bickering when I know I lost my battle that turned me into a quiet foe,
I, no longer had strength nor meaning behind my words but I knew in my head they made sense.
In my head, I knew, that if I could verbally let the avalanche of words come forth that,
that my mind would finally be set free, but how can a deaf man speak?
I wish, oh I wish.
Later on in my years I learned to speak in other ways, through my eyes rather than through speech,
art became a therapeutic thing, but how can I give you my message when you interpret my painting with another meaning?
Yeah, it sucks.
But the older I get the more I realize my messages become more clear, I no longer need the art but rather use my lips as a paintbrush and the colors are my words.
I find that when I speak, I get upraised, but maybe this is because when you hear a deaf man finally speak he has much to say but can’t communicate them.
I’ve learned to speak for myself and quiet others who try to speak for me, yet the deaf man calls back to me; I hear remorse in my heart and colors swirl in my head.
Though despite the protests I’ve learned to come out of this shell that has been forged around me all these years, and fresh air washes all around me.
I suppose turning 16 taught me a lot, but I imagine when I’m 26,
I won’t know enough.