Screams In The Void

It is a silent delirium, an invisible sting. It thievings the sanctuary of sleep, leaving a hollow zombie in its wake. A swarm of whys and wherefores , of coulds and shoulds . Only the ignorant, it seems, are immune to this rot. I am well-acquainted with my soul—its brittle edges and its iron cores. I know the wounds I deal myself simply to master the pain. At times, my sanity unravels, or perhaps it simply tires of me and wanders off. There are days when I crave nothing but the silence of my own shadows. I hardly know you—you, my midnight specter who tramples my rest, evicting me from dreams after a mere four hours, leaving the ghost of exhaustion etched upon my skin. A nomad’s life without the feast. I long to succumb to a deep slumber and wake when the calendar has turned its pages. Where will I stand when years have passed? The marks I hammer into this childhood soil do not erode; they stand defiant, though I walk this path alone. There goes the shadow of a man who was once there...

 What I seek is no easy find. It is neither common nor mundane; it seeks no ambition, nor does it crave acclaim. What I desire lives upon aged paper—an ancient scribble, a message that carved its mark. It is that shirt, outgrown but worn, bearing the stains of all I have endured. What I want clings and catches without effort; it lingers there, a thing to be touched. It offers me grace, not gold; it grants the smile of true contentment—born of a willing heart, never of debt. What I want is neither bought nor coerced. It is a bounty—earned, conquered, dreamt. It is the realm where "less" overflows with "more," where to subtract is to select, never to lose. Where choices are not merely options, but soul-deep decisions. What I want is the strength that honors the past while weaving the present—for the future is a ghost without the now . From whence I came, to where I stand, and thus, I shall become. It is not tallied in notes, or currency, or cold accounts. It cannot be...

This is anguish.  Not a phase. Not a metaphor. A weight that breathes with me. When meaning collapses, life becomes emptier than death. Death concludes. Life prolongs. One ends. The other insists. The throat dries.  The eyes shut, not to sleep, but to disappear. There is no escape while the heart keeps working like a traitor. A prison without walls.  A sentence with no crime. Time scars my face—not with wisdom or freedom, but with erosion. Slow. Indifferent. I am worn down, not lived in. I can’t carry it anymore. Bonds unravel.  Sense dissolves. I drift in a violent ocean of doubt— no north, no shore, only rotation. The pull of nowhere.  Why do you take my peace?  Silence turns predatory. Cold. Calculated.  A horror that doesn’t scream—it waits. I empty myself of pain again and again,  yet it remains embedded, driven into the marrow. Words fail because they are too clean.  My eyes are more honest. They overflow, then shut tight,  search...

I remain.  Inside a world that caves in daily, while others wave it off as a phase. Reaching those within arm’s length is effortless— but where, truly, are your fingertips? This road is solitary. Always was. Always will be. Mirages bloom around me, landscapes that promise nothing and deliver less. I lived. I waited.  For something that may never come— not today, not tomorrow. Spare me your rehearsed wisdom, your sugar-coated faith,  your tender lies. I drift at the core of disillusion. Here, hell is not symbolism.  It is geography. And who cares?  No one. Insomnia. Anguish. Perdition. I do not feel pain on the skin— I feel it where language fails. Everything here is invisible, and no one looks long enough to see. I fill pages with questions. They multiply. They mock me. I look left. I look right. They are here. They are there. They are nowhere. If I scream today, who hears? If I bleed today, who stops it? If I die today, they will cry. Because tears repla...

I miss nothing. No one. Longing is translucent—I ask myself where it went, how it would ever fill my chest if it still existed. Yesterday I died, and what remains is a void: no touch, no scent, no color, no glow. Only silence. I miss nothing. No one. They were all there. Every one of them. And from above I watched their souls, their smiles, from a plane stitched into reality itself. That was where I stood. Those people had never seen each other, never spoken, never existed to one another before the moment I bound them together. I connected life to life, turned strangers into acquaintances, acquaintances into friends, friends into family. I miss nothing. No one. Yet like an old film reel, life runs through my eyes, carrying memories of something that may have existed only for me. Where would they be if not there? I laid every stone of that path. Today, I no longer know how to walk it back—nor return to it at all. I miss nothing. No one. I watched as if they were all celebrating th...

Uncertainty is haunting me again. Maybe it never left. Just dormant. Just buried. Like a recurring nightmare that comes back every other night. Just another chapter of fear in a book with crumpled pages. And everyone is gone. One by one. Slowly. And they keep leaving. What solitude creates is a hardened callus of rancor. Rage turned inward. Inexpressive. Untouchable. Immortal. Memories don’t heal—they only numb. Brief flashes of what once pretended to be family, friends, purpose. All of it now reduced to a void inside me, enduring as long as I keep breathing. For some reason, life still insists on me breathing. Or—enough—there is no fucking reason at all. It’s just the fact of being here. Drag yourself through another year. Drag yourself through another dream that will dry up like everything else around you. Poetry? No. Not even close. This is testimony.  Poetry is fiction. Self-deception. A bitter aftertaste. None of this is poetry. The knife cuts for real. The skin feels it. It b...

In the end, no one will ever understand — and honestly, they don’t need to. If you can’t understand yourself, why the hell would anyone else? The answers you’re looking for are yours alone. People ask questions without wanting the truth. It’s just intellectual sarcasm. “I miss you. How are you?” You don’t actually want to know, brother. You don’t fucking care. Everyone is armed to the teeth, ready to tell you what’s “right,” ready to crucify you. And if you regret something, tears don’t buy forgiveness. They point fingers — “I hope you learn from this.” I’m halfway through my life; I don’t need to “learn” anything from someone who decides to kick me in the back. I need to strike back and show you that you didn’t win. But then what? No one wins, no one loses. I believe what I say because I say what I believe. People want reactions, signs, clues, reasons. Reasons drown my soul — do you see that? No. Impossible. So don’t go searching for what you’re not capable of accepting. ...

This is a long night — one of those that refuse to end before the sun returns. And in these sleepless, endless hours, I find no answers — because there are none. It’s in these hollow stretches of time, while I question my desperate attempts at happiness, that I lose myself the most, fighting against the borrowed theories of joy I hear around me. My head weighs a thousand tons, and inside me, a void — vast, unfillable. And in some strange, senseless way, I close my eyes, trying to understand the reasons life gives me — if such reasons even exist. I know this space will never be complete, never whole — like a puzzle missing its final piece, the single fragment that would reveal everything, and bring an end. My hopes drift aimlessly, day after day. I ache for the end of this waiting — for all the questions without a period, for the moment when life would prove itself worthwhile, and meaning would finally appear. My dream. I feel as though I have found an oasis. From afar, I watched the mo...

Simple. I count the days I still see you  as if they were borrowed seconds from a dream I was never meant to wake from. Like the rain that falls not to nourish— but to remind you the sky is still capable of weeping. The memories we share  linger like the final breaths  of something already dying— a future too blurred to name,  a present fading,  and a past more real  than either of us ever were. Letting you go is slow death. Loosening my grip on your fingers  for the last time,  watching you vanish  back into that distant city— and knowing I am not allowed  to follow. What else do you want  from a heart caving in on itself,  from a soul that has learned  how to scream without making a sound? The goodbyes grow colder. The memories turn foggy. The bonds unravel. The paths dissolve into wind. Would you even try to follow me now? After all the times I left the door open  and you stepped through like a stranger? ...