The quiet is violent, 

it’s an unwavering itch,

it persists until you scratch,

you rip, you tear.

The quiet is violent, 

I must drown it out, there’ll be no silence, 

silence is violence, uncomfortable, 

what follows is often riotous.

A western standoff, heavy words, 

revelations, hesitations, realisations,

world-breaking proclamations. 

I must drain it, i must restrain it, 

before the world lays still, dormant, 

before the colour drains and the light flickers. 

The quiet is violent, I’m conditioned to pry at it,

deny it of its plans, save us from those moments 

of insufferable silence.

The quiet is violent, and it shows no mercy,

when reality creeps up, it must be smothered.