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Description
Without the night, we would not be able to recognise the brightness of the day.

But the darkness surrounds me when the lights are off (because I don't think to flick them on when I enter the room) and I don't notice until I snap out of my daydream (or is it a nightdream?) that I cannot see a thing. And I know that my eyes and teeth would gleam from fear (if you could see them) but not fear that I'm surrounded and blind and deaf, but fear because I feel comfortable like this and both fact and fiction tell of bad, dark things happening at night in the blind silence. And when I feel comfortable in the blind silence, I wonder if I am one of the dark things because I never feel quite so at home in the brightness. In the brightness I can see myself and my mistakes and how I don't quite fit but in the blind silence mistakes don't seem to matter (to dark things).

And poems are supposed to be beautiful for the sake of it (beauty) and not analysed stanza for stanza and word for word and syllable for syllable or broken down to my scrawl with comments from the teacher saying 'write neater, use pen next time.' In writing just as illegible and just as erasable as mine.

But my poems don't have beauty for the sake of beauty (some even have ugly for the sake of ugly) but even non-poets see the blind silence in them and ask if I am okay. I tell them 'yes' because both parts of me scream 'don't tell the truth we're fine we're fine we're fine' before I can see the truth myself.

But maybe I shouldn't be scared that I like the blind silence, because it sometimes has wider vision than I do.

In the blind silence, I am not really me anymore, and I am scared because that seems okay.

Without the night, we would not be able to recognise the brightness of day, but I need the brightness so I can recognise the blind silence of night.

Description
Without the night, we would not be able to recognise the brightness of the day.

But the darkness surrounds me when the lights are off (because I don't think to flick them on when I enter the room) and I don't notice until I snap out of my daydream (or is it a nightdream?) that I cannot see a thing. And I know that my eyes and teeth would gleam from fear (if you could see them) but not fear that I'm surrounded and blind and deaf, but fear because I feel comfortable like this and both fact and fiction tell of bad, dark things happening at night in the blind silence. And when I feel comfortable in the blind silence, I wonder if I am one of the dark things because I never feel quite so at home in the brightness. In the brightness I can see myself and my mistakes and how I don't quite fit but in the blind silence mistakes don't seem to matter (to dark things).

And poems are supposed to be beautiful for the sake of it (beauty) and not analysed stanza for stanza and word for word and syllable for syllable or broken down to my scrawl with comments from the teacher saying 'write neater, use pen next time.' In writing just as illegible and just as erasable as mine.

But my poems don't have beauty for the sake of beauty (some even have ugly for the sake of ugly) but even non-poets see the blind silence in them and ask if I am okay. I tell them 'yes' because both parts of me scream 'don't tell the truth we're fine we're fine we're fine' before I can see the truth myself.

But maybe I shouldn't be scared that I like the blind silence, because it sometimes has wider vision than I do.

In the blind silence, I am not really me anymore, and I am scared because that seems okay.

Without the night, we would not be able to recognise the brightness of day, but I need the brightness so I can recognise the blind silence of night.