#silentscreams
You were given a crown of thorns disguised as light,
a name that echoed in canyons not your own.
Now the world knows your face, but not your bones—
only the mask, polished and painfully bright.
First, the hunger:
They offered you honey, then devoured your hive.
Flashbulbs like knives at the window, carving your skin
into headlines, rumors, a sin
you never committed. Alive,
yet buried in the glare—a fossil in glass.
Then, the hollowing:
Your laughter became currency. Your tears,
a public river. Strangers claimed your years
as heirlooms. Love grew cautious, thin,
whispering "What do they want from us now?"
in empty mansions where the mirrors bowed.
Next, the haunting:
Not ghosts, but ghosts of you—
the child you were, the truth you knew
before the applause. Now only echoes remain:
a voice rehearsing lines in the rain,
a shadow pacing a gilded room,
chewing its freedom like impending doom.
Last, the harvest:
The earth knows what you sacrificed:
Sleep. Trust. The quiet kiss of dawn.
Your mind—a city under siege—
burns with the words "I don’t belong."
You traded your soul for a monument of sound,
and now the silence is the loudest wound.
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 4:42 AM UTC
I have a room inside me that never learns to stay lit –
the bulbs hum like old refrigerators, tired and polite.
It is not only sadness; it is the slow settling of stone,
the placing of a palm on a wound I cannot name.
My smile is a borrowed coin pressed into the mouth of a beggar,
metal cool and unfamiliar. I practice saying fine –
the syllables are tidy, a drawer snapped shut against the dark.
Talking feels like choosing which limb to cut off first.
Mornings arrive like tax bills: inevitable and cruel.
I open my eyes and the world is a ledger of small violences –
the sun a pale creditor, the coffee bitter and obedient.
Breathing is a job I clock in for and instantly forget why.
There is a weight that knows the map of my bones better than I do,
it presses where directions used to be, flattens neighborhoods of hope.
Pain has become a general ledger: no line item, only balance
always a number red and endless, always due.
Sometimes I imagine carving a window into that room –
letting a sliver of weather in to see if weather remembers me.
But the shutters are welded with sentences I did not finish,
and the key is small and lost in the pocket of some other life.
The worst is the geography of it: no sharp edge to point at,
no bruise with a date, no neat explanation for why the rain keeps staying.
Only the knowing that whatever I touch comes away colder,
and I learn, slowly, how to fold myself into an acceptable silence.
If I could name the hurt, I’d dress it in words and parade it out –
but language is thin clothing for a storm this old.
So I wrap myself in softer lies and hand them to strangers,
say I'm fine and watch them believe me because they want to.
Tonight, I will tread the house of my own chest and count the rooms
the kitchen where hunger goes to sleep, the attic of all the almosts,
the cellar where my laughter ferments into objects I no longer own.
I will not find an answer. I will find the weight again, patient and exact.
Existing has become empty, a hollow rhythm,
a clock with no hands.
The worst is not knowing where the wound begins,
only that it’s everywhere –
a bruise spread across my soul, aching without edges,
bleeding without proof.
It hurts,
always hurts,
and I cannot name it.
I only know
it never leaves.
©️ Dark Water Diaries
Sep 28, 2025
Sep 28, 2025 at 4:51 PM UTC
Within this pearl-white room I sit,
Confined by walls of bondage.
Through the white noise of this nightmare,
No one can hear my silent screams.
On the ground lay a small blade,
I pick it up, gander at it in its splendor
And shimmering steel.
Out of desperation,
I scratch jagged letters into my skin.
Words that signify my desolation:
H E L P M E
Tucked away, separated from
The Architect of Light,
I now **** from the breast of Darkness.
In my quietest moments I wonder,
Where is the Sun?
Where is the Light?
Have they left me too?
Pointing I say, “Over there! My reflection
Meditating on the opposite wall.”
Walking to it, the silver glass begins to laugh
As it collects my thoughts
Knowing my cry of wants.
Now in a world of wells that
I cannot escape,
I scratch and pound at the door
To make a sound.
My final embrace,
Are my silent screams that demand a response.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
"I can't take it anymore" I said
"I hear the voices, I hear them scream"
"What voices?" he said
"There aren't any voices. Only you and I are here."
I look up
"The voices are too much for me." I said
Next thing I know I'm in an asylum
"What are the voices saying?" they ask
"They're saying everything." I whisper
Then they scream and I fall to my knees and scream with them
The screaming voices are my silent screams
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC