Digitized Screams...

I'd call
But you wouldn't hear me...
You would hear noises and sounds that were familiar
But you wouldn't hear the soul
Screaming underneath.
I would write,
But it wouldn't be the same.
Just digitized dots
Popping up into familiar
I miss you's and I love you's...
But just being dots you've seen time and again.

I want old parchment paper
and a cup where I could catch blood
from cuts on my body
and I would write a letter
and fill it with my screams
and all of the honesty that lies remiss
within all of the conversations
and pixelizations.
I would seal the parchment
In a fine resin
and dry it so it became hard,
so it resembled nicotine stained glass
(so as not to taint your fairness with my dried life)
and I would deliver it on a bed of dead dried roses,
dozens of them stacked up high
and loosely bonded by old vintage lace ribbons.
Setting upon a pallet of old ballet shoes that are sewn together
delicately so they almost seem separate,
but instead are bonded by the smallest of sutures.

if I were to write such a letter
and deliver it
in such a way
could you hear me then?

or would my transcript lack the luster
that my features must to you?

would my emotion and conviction
be as putrid to you
as these robes of flesh I wear
to conceal the beauty
within?

would my blood wail
as it does within the canyons of my mind
upon that parchment?
or would it crash in deafened ears
that heed no sounding of emotion
from a cadger of affection as myself?

It would not be a waste my love
It would not be exhausted upon you
It would be my pleasure
It would be my torture
As is breathing without your beauty
Without your torment
Without your acute repartee.

I howl!
I lament!
I vow to be ignorant,
To your abstinence!

Walls of Brimstone

These are my silent screams
written upon blood soaked walls
dug in with raw fingertips
robbed of nails years ago
these are my tears
soaked upon a face
worn with sorrow
twisted in agony
leaving a salty silt upon it
this is where I throw my agony
this is how the knots I make
stay away from my neck
this is the drawer where my razors hide
so as to not slit this throat
my painting of dejection
this is where the sorrows hide
and build an army
to ultimately destroy me
once and for all
on the so called birth of a messiah
or to pull me under eventually
into the currents of societies depraved
and insolent urchins of anguish
this is my box
this is where I live
I am no better or worse
Hiding in my pain
As if these walls were made of brimstone and fire
And hell was all about me

Too late

I am going to try and cut back on the bitter I am going to try and be nicer I am actually going to make an attempt to really be there for people I tend to be so lost in my own world that I forget about everyone in mine Until it's too late By then it doesn't matter Those people are gone They have moved on to doing other things And I am here wondering where they went Why they left me? Well I know Because I didn't pay attention To the people that meant something and it is too late to show them now