Keep me silenced
a well of anxiety
to dip guilt into,
as a pen that runs out of ink
before the thought is finished,

a morning spent in solitude,
surrounded by so much hustle,
an exclamation,
a gasp,

and it always bothered me
that he was called Winnie the Pooh,
because what the ****'s a pooh?
'An exclamation of discontent,'
and that is all I seem capable
of being lately.

The colored pigments and figments
of my loose-leaf imagination.

All the tortured souls,
identical in their melancholy,
each one wailing
in a uniform cry to be unique.

I must leave my mark on the world,
but the ground is a beach
and people are waves.
We're all on our deserted islands
with our footsteps washed away.

So very few escape.
I want to be one of those stars,
or even just a smile,
but I am lost beneath the waves.
Trying to keep silent,
and I guess it's for the best,
because my pen's run out of ink,
and anyway,

I'm just another sound.