deepundergroundpoetry.com
Scream
They say
screaming
is good for the
soul. I
can't take back all the
classes I've
walked out of, or the
friends who've
left me for their own
vindication, but oh,
can I scream.
I spend a lot of time
screaming; most of the
day, waking or un. I
scream while the
teacher's talking, on
quiet bus rides home, while I'm
painting a face on for my
therapist. I
even scream in my sleep with my
eyes wide open.
It's all in my
head, they'd have me know,
when I can't deliver
speech or look
anyone in their
eyes, but I'll have you
know that I am, in fact,
talking - no, screaming -
at you. Why can't you
hear me? In these words, my
lungs are fucking
collapsing trying to get
someone in this
haze of paranoia and self-
incarceration to just fucking
hear
me
out.
There's a point where
I've screamed so
much inside this cerebral
prison that I think even my
own soul has gone
deaf to the sound of it.
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