The Din

A poem about getting tired of keeping things to yourself

The Din

We close our shells around us
And we don’t let out what’s in,
So all outside’s a silence,
While inside there’s a din.
And I’m getting kind of lonely here
Feelings large, but feeling small
And I’m needing to stop telling you
I’ve got no pain at all.

Fortune favors everyone
Whose heads are to the wall.
There’s not a soul among us
Who’s not gained knowledge through that fall.
And while I try to hide here
Singing hymns for solid ground,
I find the only burden
Is the hope in that song’s sound.

So riddle me a riddle
And I’ll spell you a small rhyme,
You’d be surprised what you might hear
When all you’ve got is time.
You’ve gotta love what I’ve found
With my head up to the wall:
That all life’s an unrhymed riddle
And I’ve got no pain at all.