What if all the words I left unsaid await me when I am dead?
And the syntax of my empty bed leaves me hollow, plastered and misread.
It’s not a struggle of purpose to stand in the dark while the words explode from my chest like I’ve earned this.
But it all turns to cold sweat, into violent unrest.
What if all the words I’ve left unsaid await me when I am dead?
Brick by brick you lay your foundation
Thoughts lined up in calm formation
The river that flows through all your creation
It’s filthy and its foul
It’s my pollution
So I propose a solution;
Give back my blood, my mind, and my bones and let me sink into the ground.
They’re just words on a page
They’re not meant to make a sound
I swear I hear them talking out
But only when it’s dark
I never sleep.
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