An Omission of Tears that Could’ve Been

Foregone conclusions:

Je n’aime pas les personnes de la nuit

Not to mention the terrors of the day.

Demons, a faceless black wind

With knives in hand, jab at me.

Music is no more: I’m small, have no integrity.

Taught not to complain, I remain silent

Letting the pain clutter in my mind,

It is a Good Friday wasted.

Magic has no place in curing this disease,

Zoloft did its best to mask the uncontrollable,

Still sifting, tingling and misfiring neurons.

Nothing good comes from hiding fear.

Foregone conclusions, words unsaid

Settle like cold ashes left from fires of the dead.