I was not made to be silent.
I could swear with all my heart
That my voice was made to ring
In more than the chambers of my brain.
I was made to echo thunder
With a lightning flash of wit
And be heard in deep Sahara
And through angry, pounding rain.
I was made to swirl and orchestra
On the tip of a temerarious tongue
Like a human phonograph
With the volume turned up high.
I was made to fill the summer nights
With more than cricket chirps,
My shouts from warm suburbia
Resounding throughout July.
I was not made to be a songbird,
Still and fallen off a limb.
But instead a roaring phoenix,
Never silent evermore.