Swallowing S words

[funeralgrade]

I'm sick of this silence.
a word escapes my lips, breaks the pane
brings the pain to an otherwise placid facade.
I cannot speak my insight
[oh, the plagues that would flow forth]
I cannot breathe. Tonight I am.
Tonight will be another wasted night
staring at the sun
from my self-appointed electric-chair
death sentence, self-sentenced
for the crimes I have commmitted
to you, myself, to those around me
because I hate the silence,
but I hate the words more.
I cannot stand the way I am seen
how I see myself, really
but also how they see me
though I present myself with nonchalance.
I am the man behind the curtain
My personality pulling pranks, run by levers
the cloth is sewn with words,
harsh cloth that cuts beneath the skin,
a curtain that has yet to be pushed aside.
A man once sung to me a song,
he told me to enjoy the silence
but I cannot agree with him, his apathy
his crimson coated words
deep soaked and sugar-coated with electricity.
Silence is a form of suicide,
not the pretty kind presented in celluloid
where the woman swallows the poison
and drifts away silently into oblivion in lover's arms.
This is a creeping death, Carbon Monoxide
sucking on a tailpipe to slip away
cold, into that silent night
an oral fixation found later
in an eight line obituary
written in the most objective of text.
Everyone lies, suicides don't go
to a well-lit place after they've been released.
It's cold and dark, removed from God's sight.
I'm there tonight.
It's cold.
It's dark.
It's quiet.
I hate the silence.