Silence. Both a blessing and a curse. It can be the calm tranquillity, the very thing that keeps you sane. But on the other side of the spectrum it can be deafening, it's roar pulling you apart from the inside leaving you in suspense within your own mind, and my mind is not a forgiving place to be. As you stand there screaming at me, I'm almost pleased. Pleased that you drown the voices out, but I also hate you for it. You give them ammunition for when I'm alone and vulnerable. Why won't you shut up? Both of you. I want my silent peace, my oasis in this desert. Or a white flag from your side of the battle lines, drawn in the sand. A fantastical moment in a crisis? But I understand it's obviously too much to ask, well it must be since you're punishing me with this silence that screams so loud my skull threatens to shatter. At least if it did, I wouldn't have to contend with its noise; I could escape. Alas no, my work here is not done since you're so hell bent on the fact that I'm supposedly ruining your life, I may as well have something to feel bad for. Ah, but that would give you your own bullets to fire setting the wheel in motion once again. Where is my escape? I'm locked inside an abandoned house which has been set on fire and I'm suffocating. Suffocating on your lies and burnt by your dishonour and blatant disregard for others, locked in with your self-righteous and controlling nature. And after all this your words still hurt me. As I now lay under my covers at 03:15 I plug my earphones in and drown away the silence of any kind because at least the music can chase any ideas remotely linked with death away.
YOU ARE READING
Lachrymose
PoetryLachrymose /ˈlakrɪməʊs,ˈlakrɪməʊz/ adjective tearful or given to weeping. A collection of amateur prose and poetry illustrating the inner turmoil. Mainly a dumping ground for loose thoughts and ideas to be interpreted in whatever manner.
