The silence carries with it weight; oxygen now exists in my lungs as heavy air, my throat unable to swallow such a solid mass, unwilling to give passage to that last breath, as I wasted it on words you never heard.

I speak through my actions, louder than my words,

Yet my words seem to scream off this page in a way my body never could.

I write down the truth I’m either too afraid to verbalize or…

No, that’s just it: a fear pays me well to hold my tongue,

Demons, both real and living only in my skull, keep me buried,

And so I, and others, label myself a coward.

The phrase “I must change” translates from my pages into

“I can’t be bothered; I’m not worth the effort;

Some people have to be losers; I deserve this pain.”

Strangers don’t repeat this to me, unless the unknown eyes

Staring back at me from corporate purchased mirrors

Count as people unknown.

I’m self aware, for all the good that does me.

Again, actions speak louder than words,

So knowing equates to nothing if only notes,

Scribbles in blue and black, are the sole reaction.

This is the hardest part to explain;

Why would a self aware person purposefully aim to fail?

That fear is so great that it would eat away at success?

Yes.

My fear holds not just my tongue, but my chest,

Keeping my lungs from thinking they know how to breathe.

My fear fights back my senses and leaves me numb,

And I forget anything aside from the sensation

Of an devoid stomach despite it being filled

With empty pill bottles and unchecked guilt.

I can write down why I feel that guilt;

I have no tangible reason to want to die

Yet I always end my day wishing for it,

And I hate myself for that.

What does some 20 something punk know about death?

Pathetic.

My actions are a coward who begs for death

But can’t pull a trigger.

I can write down “I need to be different”

Then run down the halls and through the hills singing

“I’ll fail anyway, why fucking bother”

And so of course I lose before I even try.

I realize I am lacking and continue to be the same.

Am I just trying to give myself more reasons to hate me?

As if I needed that.

Perhaps just a tangible excuse for others?

Of course.

I’m a writer, so I’ll write it down.

I fear death, but what else will calm my soul?

I fear love, so why love myself?

I fear my inabilities, so just act as if I never realized.

I know I should, but that means nothing;

I get no praise for hollow words.