I find silence agitating, irritating, and corrosive when
the soft sound of the quiet cannot penetrate the
shouting in my head — the noise in the silence — a
self-imposed torture.
This soul is in turmoil.
I feel a stranger to myself.

I find silence a passive corroboration, a tacit approval,
or an act of omission.
I feel a stranger to myself.

There is the silence that gives safe harbor to hatred
and makes the reticent, with the stillness of their
voices, silent partners with the hateful.
I find silence allows love to lay dormant and unnurtured when hateful rhetoric goes unanswered.
I am guilty because I have said nothing.
I feel a stranger to myself.

There is "responsive" silence and the self initiated
silence, weighted in shame, guilt, fear.
The heart and mind speak what the voice did not.
The silence that accommodates fear.
I feel a stranger to myself, disquieted by the quiet.

There is the silence of compliance created from the imagined discomfort of making others uncomfortable — The sacrifice of one's own integrity —
The silence of deception.
I feel a stranger to myself.

In the silence the brain races.
The heart thumps. The adrenaline flows.
Only the mouth stays motionless and dry.
The rest of the body trembles and tremors —
The validation of injustice and the discomfort of
such acquiescence.
I am a stranger to myself.

There is a course that lies between words and silence. We speak in many ways; no shouting required:
a button on a lapel, a rainbow sticker on a window,
a logo on a car, a letter to the editor, a whisper or a song.