Yes it’s a bubble, one I can see
It huddles and hides, and keeps me to me
Its shell is quite hard, and is seldom broken
Though many a word from inside is spoken
But it reverberates and echoes inside the shell
No sounds have been uttered, as much as the outside can tell
It is merely a round thing, like an egg or a rock
Simply an object, something of which to take stock
But not to listen to, not something that makes sounds
Nothing to shock or to stimulate those around
If nothing is heard, has a word been uttered?
With a shell this thick, no thoughts have been muttered
Sometimes it takes a huge rock to shatter the shell
And sometimes the contained is broken as well
But it has to be done if thoughts are to be heard
To be broken free, so one can sing like a bird.