Literature
Grave of Shards
Existence in a mind of self oppression cuts deeper than knives,
where the tears that fall act as a lighter to burns it leaves in light,
so why do the screams of silence ring the loudest only to this mind?
How evasion of my own emotions acts like barrier of clear glass,
no matter the burns or layers I put between them,
I still have to see hurt I don’t know how to approach.
It always looks like a gravestone trying fall over the whole I dig,
and the only solution I bare is self harm or dig deeper,
closing my eyes with burns running throughout so I can’t see.
Then repeating the habitual process of putting it into words,
using it to let a layer build itself on the number I jot down.
The next time my eyes open I just hope I am facing the other direction,
maybe I won’t see the wounds that lay open with salt corroding them.
All of this in an attempt to find a way out that leads where I started,
surrounded by clear walls of words playing themselves off as glass,
cracking and begging for a means