Whispers of silence float up and clog your ears,
tapping on your eardrum loudly,
asking the question that is stuck in your throat
and burns the back of your mouth.
Bundles of nothing fry between your ears,
wisping into smoky tendrils of uncertainty,
begging you to structure the base of your dream
that now has no shape or form.
Mountains of doubt erect themselves in your heart,
lava fire churning within and burning vividly,
fanned enthusiastically by that imagination and vibe
that causes an overflow of what-if’s?
Dreams that once lined your very soul,
lie discarded in the empty corridors of your vessel,
stomped to near death by self-imposed pressures
that are supported by those mountains above.
You have to move these mountains, somehow.
You have to drench that fiery lava, some way.
You have to turn nothing into something, somewhere.
You have to squash those whispers or, some day,
ask that question.
You have to live.