To sit, to be, alone swmming in a sea of silence.
To hear the sound of anonymity.
To bask in the glory that is obscurity.  
To hear, to see, only that to which is important to me.
The noise of the world left behind.
The deafening drums of what we now call life.
The noise, it saturates the soul.
Thick black tar clogging the path to a peaceful mind.
This constant grind, rolling psychotically.
Crushing, breaking, smashing, snapping.
Untill the heart is left plastered on the concrete.  
A smear I  ignore, a pain i medicate, a hole I try to fill.
It runs deep this damage.
Like blue ink on white cloth it stains me.
Throbing as it flows down marring the senctaty of my soul.  
My pain is not physical, not the sharp jarring pain of a broken bone.
Not the naked exposed pain of an open wound leaking life to the indifferent air.
It is that of a, bruised heart,  a battered soul, a troubled mind.
Abstract in its nature.
Understanding a bygone feature.
It has no beggining and no end.
When it comes the pain is everywhere and nowhere.
All at once then not at all.
Numb and yet so intense.
But the water of silence.  
Washes me, and the tar, the ink, the pain the stink.
Run down my body, the sensation sweet and heavenly.
Honey of the mind, milk to nurture the soul.
It is only then that I am weightless, only then that I am truely whole.