My blood creeps through my head, in reverie.
I was left unspoken to and there are things I couldn’t say,
how this was I could not talk with whom

it mattered, at least to whom I thought
it did. And purging through the sand in the hourglass, the
grains start to feel like though they roughen up

my skin, it remains untouched by you. And it bleeds
on the inside, as I have my head and heart waiting for
reply. But it won’t come. How silence can unpierce

through me like an ethereal needle cushion. Am I not worth
it, have I left your mind now more than I have before? For the
screen I look and sit, patience I am burning, like

long incense sticks, but alas, my room’s ceiling has not
the height to hold the scent imprisoned above me, and it
escapes, with light smoke spiraling down the stairwell, it

is devoid of all serenity bringing quality. Still I keep myself
clean, from the foul smell of darkness, and maintain my artificial
scent, longing to break the concentration that I need to

stay calm over this. Though in almost more time I feel it become
more useless. I am not built for the speechless weight of others; I
wish you’d just come talk to me.


© 2004