Another day is blown apart.
A sweet moment has been supplanted
by time and distance.
A voice on the line is cut into static.
A song was sung to become a dial tone.
Another moment of peace became uncertainty.
Why the fuck do I get out of bed anymore?
Would it truly matter if I died in my sleep?
Who would weep?
Who would have their world shattered?
What space would be cleared by my erasure from Darwin's to-do list?
And so it goes,
an ocean in between the beauty I felt near her,
and the wall of silence I sleep standing up against.
Another night spent in silence,
typing my bleeding heart inanity onto a cold, silent page,
with a moon as cold as the stars so far distant past her face.
Another night spent in decomposition,
of composition of a muse that is forever alone,
forever tortured by the need to be loved,
the need to be heard by someone in the flesh,
some ear to tweak at the sounds I desperately share,
with a world gone mad from selfish ambition.
And so I go, on into the late hours,
a dead-man-talking, to myself, through these poems,
screaming, scratching at the door,
for a little piece of peace,
to find comfort, to be needed,
to be held down and shown my charms have gravity, just ONCE.
It used to be simple,
the incandescent hues of each dawn,
promising to be filled with purpose.
I keep creating.
I keep bleeding.
I keep reinventing the notion of self.
I keep spinning the wheel.
But the silence comes time and again.
I wake up alone.
I am surrounded by my own creations.
They cannot hold.
There is no comfort.
There is only the bastardized silence,
the truth,
stabbing me in my face,
as I refuse to blink back my fear.
Alone is just another night...in silent decay...