"We are masters of the unsaid words but slaves of those we let slip out."

- Winston Churchill 

Do I dare? Do I spill my blood for you?

Or is it for me?

The words trap and consume, never letting the meaning run free

Not good enough.

The page empty, drained by the letters stabbing in

I stabbed them because I want you to feel it

But they only hurt me

Can you feel it?

Do you see me?

No. Not good enough. I am still alone. 

Please listen

Feel the curve of my pen make sorrow

Feel it make life

Feel me peele my ghostly skin back and expose my bones to you

Go deeper

See the way my blood flows, strong and corrupt

I am pure even as the dirt under my nails falls to the paper

I am brave even as I cower behind the pen

But I am not honest for I write in pencil

Soft and broken, easily erased, easy to make disappear

I control it, I am the master of emptiness

Slave to the full 

Let me bleed for you and stain the shirt your mother picked out for you

Let me tarnish your shoes with dirt and step on your toes

Let me show you pain. 

No. Not good enough.

I draw with stencils, neat and already placed

The pencil does not belong to me

Is this why you can't hear me? Are these not my words? 

They have belonged to others, I do not deserve these words

But still, I use them

I bleed for you

My blood spills into the tightly packed letter stencils 

It pools around the walls and falls to the ground,

Dirty and elusive, they miss the paper

Not good enough.

Your eyes pin me, paralyze me

The blues and browns are so beautiful 

They disgust me because I have no eyes, they have been stolen by the page 

Let me go. 

I am screaming

Hear me.

Listen.

For the words are empty and I write nothing

They are mine. Not yours today. 

Let them eat me tonight for dinner so you may eat yours

Maybe tomorrow I will be consumed

But today I am free

My hand is strong while I erase my blood from the paper 

Leaving nothing but the comforting blindness of white

The notes are mine;

You can't listen if there is no sound

So I ask nothing of you

And of me?

Maybe tomorrow I will be just enough. 

She has seen you all before

All the eyes that wander in callous joy

The eyes that hide in ubiquitous loathing

The brows that furrow in contemplation 

All the eyes to be seen and to be lost 

Were once hers to behold

And then you go. 

With the tang of the night still sticking to the flick of her tongue 

she slithers through the dimly lit streets 

a lonely mist devouring the air with dances of empty mischievousness

Her fingers caress the darkness 

each playing a different note in the orchestra of night 

Her wrinkled thumb hits low with the sinuous sounds of mother crying, 

her cracked nail beckons forth the screech of tires

and her pinky coerces the roar of tumultuous thunder 

Rushing gracefully

in waves with silent screams for violins 

furious pounding hearts for cellos 

and seductive jealously for her flutes 

she conducted her orchestra and with every string plucked 

every drum beat 

she felt the impending darkness of night soothe her loneliness 

Her art was chaos but her heart was empty. 

Your smiles isolate

All the smiles practiced in faith

The smiles that whisper destruction

Each smile that clawed in dissatisfaction

Were once all her's

To hold and caress

Now all are gone

You are loneliness.

Let me go. 

From your vindictive fingers that grab the ropes that tie her mind together 

they have taken her hair 

once cascading with sunshine 

now only to be replaced and stabbed by shadow 

Her back 

once adorned with innocence and freshly fallen snow powdered to flight 

has been ripped and mauled by the prayers of children

Her body 

once beautifully bare and unmarked 

now holds the lashes of words and scars of undisputed flame 

Her fingers 

once youthful and ethereal 

able to play the heart of the harp with beauty and grace 

have shattered to pieces; 

cracks have gone empty as they fall into oblivion

each obfuscates the night with curves meant to disrupt direction. 

Her eyes, once your's, are gone 

For only darkness speaks to the blind.

The figure an illusion

The wings of sorrow tapered in despair

Do not beat in the air anymore

They fall soundlessly into the night

Creating silence within noise

A shadow to the ebony darkness

Never seen

Never heard

Only forgotten to all but the night.