repression.
this is the block.
it comes in at 3 o'clock
in the morning when you know it is empty,
it becomes the modus vivendi

repression.
it devours you.
taints you that rouge.
quiet becomes the switch that keeps them
crying.

repression.
like a cigarette passed around
we share it, not making a sound.
the smoke rising
and the sorrow is chastising.

repression.
the words lost in the silence
yet blooming with the violets.

repression.
there is nothing to say.
it seems like it is okay.
you shut everyone away

and lock them with the words you cannot find.