The unsaid is silence.
The unsaid makes everything so tense.
The unsaid shows that I’m just dense
In the head with no consequence,
Except for being held inside the fence
Of the unsaid, and its silence.

The unsaid lingers overhead.
The unsaid comes back alone instead.
The unsaid makes my eyes turn red
When I can’t seem to find comfort in my own bed
Because the unsaid kills all that is sacred.

The unsaid is regret.
The unsaid is falling with no net.
The unsaid is pain met
With endless time endlessly wet
From the tears over the unsaid and the regret.

The unsaid is me.
The unsaid is her, not we.
The unsaid is not meant to be.