Silence I cannot hear it
The noise won’t leave and often I can’t bear it a sound inside like a TV finished it’s fun for the night in the eighties in my head in a pitch not ignored no matter how many waves roll through my mind
It’s in the left and in the middle but at the back proper surround stuff going on in my brain but only the pitch not the tune no rhythm no relief no melody’s fleece
Just a monotonous monotony in high pitched squeal letting me know quiet is no longer my deal for real my hearing now owned by my inner whatever as it squeals at high volume but not to any other and every time I seek silence’s peace the peal turns up and declares it’s enmity to rest and others decry the real problems I face and tell me it’s all in my mind’s space YES I agree that is where it’s at but it rules supreme with its own diktat and I’m merely a prisoner to the pitch from the brain that orders me servant to its metallic refrain.
© Stuart Patterson 2022