Screams In The Void

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? ...

When the winds rise, they carry the cold like curses.  Seeds left thirsty rot in silence.  A crooked smile — always a lie. Perfection is just the moment before collapse.  Love poured in violent floods spoils the tenderness. Sunlight? A slow-burning death beneath the skin. If I don’t lie, someone will — and worse.  Doubt comes like a convoy, crushing the will to conquer. To feel nothing is to be already buried.  Without trust, I’ll never carve my name into forever. To give freely is to bleed later.  One day I stand on skulls, the next I’m swallowed by the dirt. Lights that shine too brightly scorch the eyes until they darken. All wounds rot into scars, and none of them forget.  My words mean nothing — you don’t hear my soul. If I can’t believe, I exist without dreams. My fears don’t kill, but they shackle every step. Love without respect is a slow death, bloated by ego. Ignore my cries — you erase my worth.  Hold a rose too tightly, and the ...

A razor-thin edge between fleeting joy and relentless torment— where peace detaches from thought,  and drags me back into a choking thread of despair. It pulls me under, into sleepless nights,  where distant echoes churn inside my skull, denying me rest, denying me repair. There is no cure for this condition. I’m lost— marooned in a mind that tears itself apart. My body crumbles, my mind collapses, and I toss the dice, begging for a reason to breathe again. When I say I won’t write about love inspired,  it’s because love dulls the blade of my fear,  and when that blade is dulled,  the words die with it. I am unstable, delicate— a crystal on the edge of shattering. The spears come daily,  piercing deeper each time, and the wounds no longer remember how to close. When does it end? It’s a slow suffocation, drifting with no harbor to hold me.  I don’t care if these words are ugly, if they disturb you, if they push you away—they aren’t for you. Th...