Learning to Talk

Why was I taught to talk inside my head?
Was it in case the words I say aloud
would hit the air with a bang,
like a thick whip cracking at the clouds?
Why was I never taught to talk?
Am I another ballot in the box?
Are we a simple pitter patter
of chitter-chatter, the splash of the sea
that's afraid to turn into a wave?

I would stammer when I started,
and the garbage words tripped
out of my mouth and on to the floor,
when the world only listens
to clouds propelled by hot air.
Clouds, who speak my words
and steals them from the vault
I was never told to keep safe.

Although we would start with murmurs
or slight slips thrust forward through lisps,
we will rumble the sky and drown
the flashing streaks of lightning;
because a word is a bee
and by itself can annoy,
                but a swarm,
a swarm can gather to form a cloud
that can shadow the ground.

For we (the bees) are the vigilantes,
giving our words back to the masses.