Screaming Into The Void

See I wanna scream.

A yell from the rooftops
Screams into a void.
A clutch tightens in my chest,
like an old woman clutching her purse.

Roar with defiance.
Bellowing silence.
Wailing for guidance.
Howl to the moon.
Raging at giants.
Defying science.

Can you hear me?
I mean, can you listen for a minute?

I wonder if you can decode the Rubik’s Cube.
Perceiving the patterns I hide but ache to reveal.
Switch the stickers around, I don't mind.
These wounds are stubborn to heal.

Be kind when you rewind my ramblings.
Misconceptions are gnawing at my ego.
Make room to accept my weird questions.

Like, where did the islands go?
Do clouds experience cyclones?
What wakes the birds in the morning?

Is the fact the timeline of your life has been quantified
into algorithmic data points not concerning?

If silence is golden, why do I only hear rattling iron chains?
Will this damn void ever scream back?
Is the void the one truly in pain?

Waiting to hear back incites continuous panic attacks.
I’ve become unhinged.

Fade to black.
But the curtains are caught on the hook —
forced to look at the unraveling.
It’s happening, a whole catastrophe.

Clapping in braille,
wrapping me in maddening,
the systems shatters, binds me in a psychosis hell.

Patterns in my brain scattering
Pitter-pattering, the result of rainy days.

Write ’til the void flatters me.
Then pretend to skate on Saturn’s rings.

Chaos battling,
Demons crackling,
Illnesses blackening.

My pen — a javelin soaring through the wind again.
It’s just truth, don’t interpret it as saddening.

This is the artist’s need:
the need to bleed,
See.
Feel.
Be.

An emotional Molotov cocktail.
watch the beautiful flames engulf the building of understanding.
Pay attention — it does it well.
The melodic sounds of the siren’s bells,
Stir the waters of the hidden well.

You can’t tell what I mean yet — that’s the point.

It’s the reason why many light a joint,
or pour that nightly drink just to not think,
to stare in the dark and not blink.

I just vomit consonants and syllables in sprawling parades of sound,
alliterate the ache until the alphabet itself seems to rattle its chains,
personify my hate so that even shadows flinch when I walk through them.

A cacophony enjambed, tangled feelings stitched sideways through lines,
each breath a cracked mirror, each pause another break in rhythm —
but still the sentence runs, still the thought staggers forward,

and metaphors, they meditate through me,
sweat rising from my pores like incense,
a prayer disguised as madness.

Similarly the similes —
ah, they will all miss them,
because the weight of this rage is too heavy for anyone to notice

the subtle cipher written between the words,
the secret codes I scatter in plain sight, seeds in the wheat fields,
hidden like truth in the rant of a lunatic.

So who do you really pick?
The calm and meditative or the bleeding and enraged?

Am I the one standing free, screaming into the void,
as you are the one locked in the cage?