Digitized screams....
I'd call
But you wouldn't hear me...
You would hear noises and sounds that were familiar
But you wouldn't hear the soul
Screaming underneath.
I would write,
But it wouldn't be the same.
Just digitized dots
Popping up into familiar
I miss you's and I love you's...
But just being dots you've seen time and again.
I want old parchment paper
and a cup where I could catch blood
from cuts on my body
and I would write a letter
and fill it with my screams
and all of the honesty that lies remiss
within all of the conversations
and pixelizations.
I would seal the parchment
In a fine resin
and dry it so it became hard,
so it resembled nicotine stained glass
(so as not to taint your fairness with my dried life)
and I would deliver it on a bed of dead dried roses,
dozens of them stacked up high
and loosely bonded by old vintage lace ribbons.
Setting upon a palate of old ballet shoes that are sewn together
delicately so they almost seem separate,
but instead are bonded by the smallest of sutures.
if I were to write such a letter
and deliver it
in such a way
could you hear me then?
or would my transcript lack the luster
that my features must to you?
would my emotion and conviction
be as putrid to you
as these robes of flesh I wear
to conceal the beauty
within?
would my blood wail
as it does within the canyons of my mind
upon that parchment?
or would it crash in deafened ears
that heed no sounding of emotion
from a cadger of affection as myself?
It would not be a waste my love
It would not be exhausted upon you
It would be my pleasure
It would be my torture
As is breathing without your beauty
Without your torment
Without your acute repartee.
I howl!
I lament!
I vow to be ignorant,
To your abstinence!
But you wouldn't hear me...
You would hear noises and sounds that were familiar
But you wouldn't hear the soul
Screaming underneath.
I would write,
But it wouldn't be the same.
Just digitized dots
Popping up into familiar
I miss you's and I love you's...
But just being dots you've seen time and again.
I want old parchment paper
and a cup where I could catch blood
from cuts on my body
and I would write a letter
and fill it with my screams
and all of the honesty that lies remiss
within all of the conversations
and pixelizations.
I would seal the parchment
In a fine resin
and dry it so it became hard,
so it resembled nicotine stained glass
(so as not to taint your fairness with my dried life)
and I would deliver it on a bed of dead dried roses,
dozens of them stacked up high
and loosely bonded by old vintage lace ribbons.
Setting upon a palate of old ballet shoes that are sewn together
delicately so they almost seem separate,
but instead are bonded by the smallest of sutures.
if I were to write such a letter
and deliver it
in such a way
could you hear me then?
or would my transcript lack the luster
that my features must to you?
would my emotion and conviction
be as putrid to you
as these robes of flesh I wear
to conceal the beauty
within?
would my blood wail
as it does within the canyons of my mind
upon that parchment?
or would it crash in deafened ears
that heed no sounding of emotion
from a cadger of affection as myself?
It would not be a waste my love
It would not be exhausted upon you
It would be my pleasure
It would be my torture
As is breathing without your beauty
Without your torment
Without your acute repartee.
I howl!
I lament!
I vow to be ignorant,
To your abstinence!