I sit with silence in my ears, but a battle in my head rages between memories and fears. One could say I hear the hostilities, but hearing is far too imprecise to describe the carnage. Every ounce of doubt and regret builds up until the borders won't hold aggressors, and my howling lament erupts into words that only I seem to notice. I write them down, but no one seems to understand.
I wait with silence in my ears, but pills in my palm to greet midnight. One could say I welcome the impossible days and unbearable nights in this world not of my choosing, but obviously of my invention. Every ounce of me misses closeness, misses trust: misses love; melancholy seeps into words to which all others seem indifferent. I wrote them, and shouted them in the streets, but met myself on the road, and strangled him.
Now, I write with silence on my lips, but a pen in my hand to shape tomorrow. One could say I write from love, but love evades me like the perfect words for this moment. Every ounce of ink defies odds and logic the same way, and litters my pages with flurries of poetic brilliance punctuated by eternities of verses so ugly, only sheer anonymity can consume them. I withhold nothing from my chronicles, but the melancholy fuel for my stationary poetic inertia ensures the pursuit of their passages to remain nameless, misunderstood, and unloved.
Everyone misses something, I believe. I miss happiness: a delusion I briefly defined with my undeserved devotion, accepting the words "I know" instead of "I love you," and a desire only reciprocated in my imagination. How foolish am I? All the pills, pens, and promises for peace can't satisfy my silent habits, conceived in madness, carried in words, and condemned in the verses rehearsed in my thoughts for an audience of none.