(long Poem :) Voiceless Solid Yellow Shell Poem by Christos R. Tsiailis

Anything the voice tells you is important,
As if it’s building up a secret novelty portal.
You cannot make out meaning of these words,
you can barely hear from your yellow shell.

You seem to love this pleasurable noisy knitting,
you crave this heavy succulent mumbling.
It’s the way it sounds from your yellow shell,
interrupted by the heavy breathing,
with vowels so masculine,
with the sweetest sounds of hissing.
By no means it’s building up a portal to your heart
and don’t you think it’s talking to your soul.

It’s not sounds! It’s words!
Hear ME!
They are words powering the greatest gear
to speed you up to Heaven and Hell and Nothing,
it’s building up your greatest fear,
that happy you will die in your yellow shell

Hear Me!
Here I shout out loud with all my might
to make you listen,
and I scream as if to frighten the night,
and I want My voice to crack the yellow shell.

In a nutshell, you are a lunatic enclosed in a nutshell,
and I am perhaps the wordiness,
and I am perhaps a clear voice,
and I am perhaps another logic,
and I am perhaps the shadow you gave up for darkness.

Listen, I shout aloud with all my might
to make you listen
and I scream as if to frighten the night
and I want My voice to crack the yellow shell

But now I reconsider.
I’ve been shouting and screaming,
just to make you listen.
And I ended up mumbling the words
of the secret masculine voice.
Everybody lives in a shell,
I live in a shell.

Hear me from my shell [as I breathlessly lower my voice pitch and my volume],
the workers have their tools somewhere,
one day they will come with the chisel and the hammer and the spade
so I had holes made
to see outside when I want.
Holes big enough to extend my limbs,
to go hide away from the voice,
until they come.


But you, you refused to compromise
and your shell is thick and hole-less
And now I mumble the words
of the secret mumbling voice
Everybody lives in a shell
I was born in a shell.

Hear me; the painters are many out there
so I keep having it died in new colours,
just to be someone I myself would bare to love,
altered enough to have a second name,

But you, you refused the colours
and your shell is more yellow than the yellow of yellow
deep inside the egg.