writing
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I am but a humble scrivener, of ink and vellum born,I tend the wills of gentlemen – their fortunes and their scorn.The stacks are cold and airless, where the candle’s seldom lit,And ghosts of ink and parchment whisper, “mind the words you’ve writ.”They speak of pale Annabel, a clerk of modest wage,Who vanished from her
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You taught me to smile like a switchblade in sheath,Say “bless your heart” through the grit of my teeth.Walk through a fire while lighting a cigarette,Win every fight I haven’t lost yet.You measured my spine ’til it learned to stay straight,Taught me the formula — love into hate.Told me to treat my own kindness like
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Another Saturday night spent baptizing our problems in fluorescent light.The coffee’s a sermon on burning out slow.The jukebox is screaming a hymn for the broke,and we’re just disciples of nowhere to go.And the sugar rush hits like a cheap revelation,we’re praying for something to break the stagnation.Oh, this ain’t a breakdown, it’s just a dress
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I used to sleep like a solider,Boots by the bed, eyes on the door.Now I lie still in the quietAnd wonder what I’m waiting for.I don’t miss the fire or the wreckage,Just the way it made me move. When everything was burning,At least I knew what to do.Patched their walls, ignored my stress.Thought my giving
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You left me a ring made of soot and smoke,A promise half-burned, a joke I never broke. Taught me “fire keeps you warm, if you just stop the tears.”I mastered the poker face; I practiced for years. You stitched your survival right under my skin,A lineage of flint where love should’ve been.Said, “Pain is a
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Before you get comfortable, let me give you the tour,This isn’t a heart that you’ve seen before.There are voices in the wall, a chill in the hall,and a portrait I’ve turned to face the wall.The last one who stayed tried to paint the walls white,but the shadows I live with bled through in the night.
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I spread my life across the table, maps I never understood. The paper hums with silent echoes, coastlines fading where I stood. The rivers never flowed quite right, the towns I cherished disappeared,just pressure-point fossils of the world I once steered. And I don’t know when the ink ran dry, but I’ve been tracing ghosts
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We were almost something – we were almost friends.
I Wrote This Instead of Screaming 