The scars of my soul bleed through words in the form of poetry.
If objects had a voice..
If objects had a voice, they would not stand still. Perhaps they would form groups and chatter and laugh, their voices will pass through the windows, across the walls of next room, and to the backyard in unison.
The floral linen fabric in my closet will desire to visit gardens, and accompany flowers; sunflowers and daisies. The neon lights may start emitting galactic stars out of itself. The alloy antique piece which sits passionately in display case, may long to return to its original state; metal and metal infused. And the storage at the back of the home would speak of the loneliness that prevails at the centre of its heart.
If objects had a voice, they would not stand still. They would rhyme and sing about the moments they go by for years and years; like a silent memory stuck in a broken heart, or a fantasy living in a child's mind.