God, I’m Fucking Screaming

s.b.m.

1:06 am

4.08.15

I haven’t felt the rhythm of serenity flow from my fingers in quite some time.

Here I am, sitting idly, with thoughts rummaging through my mind.

And I believe that love and happiness exist, but where do I fit in

in all of this?

God, I’m fucking screaming, but where do my vocals resonate when the mirror

shatters on that freshly swept linoleum floor?

How can I possibly compare to the shards of glass that cut my ankles,

fresh like the smell of iron and wine from a newborn soul.

I have gently placed my mind in the barriers of old, rusty bars

that beg me to just stay put.

But, I’m lashing out, I promise you.

God, I’m fucking screaming, but the hushed voices rise above my own.

I’ve been rummaging in the attic and I’m telling you the memories

have been creeping up the nape of my neck

like a dark sweat that reminds you you’re far from finished.

And fuck, I don’t care if none of this makes sense to you.

I’m fucking turning in my sleep as my mind tries to cover up lustful memories

of him sweeping me off my feet

or was that just me falling asleep?

I scatter from one scar to the next, indentations that whisper lullabies of pure innocence and naivety.

Long lines, short lines, what does it matter? None of this makes sense to me either.

God, I’m fucking screaming, and I can hear myself rising, rising above the rest like I’ve got a nasty fever.