The silent screams echo in my soul
and in a vision, a bloodbath
no enemy has invaded my space
just me and my own kind of wrath.
The weeping only comes
from my mind's inner eye
as I sit here staring nowhere
and the world walks on by.
In the dark I curl up
just a fetus in the night
holding on til the morning breaks
and brings the daylight.
I reach desperately for comfort
just a moment without pain
a hope for not wanting
to slit just one small vein.
It would be so easy
and I would finally feel some peace
but what I would leave behind
makes me some kind of cruel beast.
So I hold on til I want to puke
thinking maybe it will go away
and I can breathe again somehow
and last another day.
For what, I haven't got a clue
what if its just another like this
another day of insanity
in a cruel and dark abyss.
It ain't nobody's fault
just how its meant to be
but I try to look for the good things
find blessing among debris.
But I look inside and I see them
the ones that make me up
the little girl, her soldier,
and the one with the grieving cup.
The muse who speaks fluently
in poetry, our message best
and me, the one with the scars
who takes the beatings for the rest.
And the grieving one is on fire
filled with anger, spitting blood
begging for help and collapsing finally
in the dirty, filthy mud.
And the others afraid to touch him
not knowing what to do
helpless in their desperation
about to come unglued.
And it terrifies the child
as she watches this cruelty
and she hangs on to her soldier
and hides behind his knee.
She attempts not to look upon him
dreaming of another place
but the screams don't fade so easily
emblazoned on her mind, his face.
And the muse can only write
and record this story, this tale
of the moment we spend at night
in the place that we call hell.
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