We, introverts love to socialize
and laugh
and overemphasize the mewling infant,
the anxious adolescent,
and the weary adult
flipping the scrabble boards
in our minds — we
are not awkward nor stoic
just because we don't morph
our books into movies,
our poems into songs,
the rhythms of our heartbeats
into an existing conversation
and our scrabble words
into onomatopoeia,
our photographs do not
speak for ourselves;
the moment that we speak,
accidental journalists pave their way
towards our syllables,
capture the message between
the crevasses of our stutters,
the sound waves that are not meant
to be exhumed—
deeply amazed with the fact
that inside our bodies
are souls who know
how to speak,
now they hid their articles
when they learned
that our language is fumed.
with the introverts and extroverts
populating our favorite novels,
literary analyses attached
on the table of the weary adult,
weary of being weary,
baby mittens and socks
with unwritten glory,
the adolescents with the
scrabble boards, tracing
their phases or the constitution
of their characters
in their stoic faces.
we are introverts
in a way that our existence
doesn't rely on your ability
to comprehend our innermost voices,
brights and darks—
like twilight larks,
we are not obliged
to satisfy your question marks.
—MLD | 09-26-2021 7:31 pm