What's Loud Is Quiet

At night It’s dark. It’s silent. But somehow I hear screams. Memories. Things I never said. Things I have yet to say. My sighs. I hear them, But I have no feeling in my lungs. Color is fun. I tried painting once. It worked for a moment, Until my portraits refused to stay still. Now I stare outside upon my windowsill. At night There’s somehow more to see. My mind is staring Right back at me.