Words trickle from the leaky faucet of my mouth.

Unprotected.

Unadulterated.

Unaccustomed.

I never meant to say those things to you,

But I did.

I want to take them back.

I see ‘forever' is just a word poets use to measure their pain.

Rhyme by lingering rhyme.

And their hearts keep measure to the languid sorrows of the mind.

Tear by brutal tear.

If God would only spare me this trial,

Framed by ghosts and memories,

I would smile.

Because there would be hope.

But instead I am here,

Scrawled across this wasteland of our love;

Saluting the dead, the loathed and the lost,

As the future rots in the palm of my hand.

I don't remember sunlight.

Not in the way it should be.

Everything feels cold and lifeless to me,

And Earth's cold, blue lips press against my skin.

The little poet has come home.

And he steps into darkness.

Scream?

Him

Hear

You

Can