When someone says talk: I listen
To the voices in the back.
The doubters and the worriers
Peering out of dusty cracks.
Their teeth chatter to a rhythm.
Their eyes dance to a similar time.
It’s as if they’re always wondering
If they’re prime suspects to a crime.
Was it like this from the beginning?
Have they shivered since my birth?
These voices in the back there
Who question our own worth.
When I laugh they all quieten
For a short time they are still
Maybe I should laugh the longest:
Bend their nattering to my will.