Unheard

Unheard

In the silent hours
Our screams are shouted loudest
Without listeners

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Perhaps?

Whenever I resist,

the world pulls back harder,

a gravitational force I cannot control;

it tugs at my soul like a dead weight.

Perhaps it is, and I am, or not?

Though the questions

materialise like blizzarding snowflakes,

the answers are less forthcoming,

one cannot see the clouds in the background,

but one can feel them.

When life is lived as a ghost,

the rest of the world a brazen solidity,

I fear, for then the chains are strongest

and the heart they’re bound to, least.

They say pain is in the mind,

yet my mind is vivid:

Is this the writer’s curse?

Perhaps it is, and I am, or not?