How unfortunate

My words stream along my face but aren't
heard unless the point of a pistol streams along it too,
I have no will to die but it's unfortunate that in order to hear me death is what gravitates.
The pulse that bestows countless opportunities is merely an echo in the abyss of a soul pronounced still...There's no funeral for that, no moment to mourn, the world just adjusts to grief as if it were voluntary.
Because society says so, we turn the other cheek when our neighbor has soaked theirs. How unfortunate it is we're accustomed to looking away as if our ears are our eyes, anything to tune out the deafening sounds of a silent cry. Or how memory has no play in lives that aren't our own, that suffocating, identity breaking, stomach stabbing, pain when the daggers of reality twist into the deepest parts of you only to relinquish the hurt that no society norm can trap. But we hear it and call it crazy, bipolar, or just issues..
Is what makes us humane makes us demented?is that the issue? Or is it the fact that we can barely hold our breath long enough to exhale behind closed doors? The cemented bricks that stack in my throat tell me it's human but the eyes that sear into my vulnerability tell me the panic is a form of attention desperation. How unfortunate it is to filter even the most natural forms of expression.