When you hear what’s behind silence,
you fear and then tear random pages,
to make some rustle.
That’s what you are used to
and I’m too.
Scratching sound of pen,
and familiar smell of lies mixed in ink
feels like aftermath, a poor substitution
for standing in front and facing it.
A pulpy mass of shapeless self-blames?
Seeds of grief spreading roots under guilty ideas.
And marks of struggle to set free.
And run away.
Behind endless noise and senseless words.