It is always the quiet ones
Whose minds scream
And whose lungs fill with the most air
The quiet ones whose jaws you want to pry open
Reach down their throats
(For whatever is hidden there)
And drag out the opinions that they
Keep to themselves
Something on the horizon
You couldn’t see as well

When they look at you,
Each blink is a photograph
You want to squeeze behind their eyes to see
If there is beauty or contempt contrived
Their opinions held in the highest esteem

I have tried to settle down
To keep my words few and crisp
I can’t help that light beams shoot out of my mouth
They boil and strain till I part my lips
I’m sorry that my body shakes
After all, I was born in an
Earthquake
But with my eyes open wide
I can see right through you
I can see just as much as the quiet ones do.