• It is a quiet thing,
    even when it is loud.
    It is racing blood,
    the silent anguished
    Scream.

    It is relentlessly
    burning cycles.
    We laugh and cry,
    wince and gasp.
    Push on

    Even in the silence
    of a dead room filled
    with eyes of quiet
    misinterpretation.

    Wintrily judgment falls
    from flapping gums
    of feeble fish on a shore
    not meant for them.
    Push on,

    Push on for one day
    One day the silent scream
    will reach the ears intended.
    One day, perhaps this time,

    Perhaps if
    I twist the knife,
    I stab harder,
    I pour salt in old existing wounds,
    and mine be salted too.

    Perhaps if
    we hurt equal I will see the pain I feel,
    find Misery's friend
    and this cycle will end.

    It's a quiet thing,
    even when it's loud.
    It's the pain I feel
    projected out, but
    the silent anguished
    Scream will Push on.