The silence is deafening,

a piercing to my ears

by my many voices

arguing amongst themselves.

 

They haunt me,

the way memories

puncture hearts like

plucked-tuned-teeth

in a mouth piece that was

made for a crooked smile.

 

I lye parallel to the moon

listening to my regrets ramble,

while bathing never seems

to never rinse my thoughts clean,

and every night time dies

when it is quiet enough to hear

the walls talk in their sleep.

Their echoes prey on myself

who is already half-dead

just aching to dream.

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