To suffocate my screams. A poem by T.S. Wilde and The Black Box.

So a friend (who remains anonymous) and I wrote a poem together tonight, God know how it happened, but here it is:


T.S. Wilde: What am I supposed to do with all these brains and this emotional damage?

The Black Box: Sweep it under the rug with the rest of my broken puzzles.

T: But I forget that's where I keep my anger so no one sees it. There's no more room.

B: So then i will rip up these floorboards like you tore my paper heart and cram the feelings of self worthlessness there where everyone who steps on it will think those squeaks are just old wood, but in reality is the truth of my hell trying to get out.


T: As if my feelings of self loathing could ever be contained within the confines of the floors of this old house.--As if your personal hell isn't always leaking out into every day life when you're cradling your shredded heart like all the other lost souls of this generation.

B: No, these floorboards can't hold all that. Ill have to rip up the floorboards of every floor of every home in America, on every story in every building until my story has been written on these bricks in blood, until the northern lights read my lie and can shine in the south with my words never spoken, just written on the page in this pen that will run dry trying to tell of my hatred, and that is why they invented the iPad. But even when the 64 gigabytes of lust hate and scars, they will need to make a bigger iPad to contain these words, and a vocal box bigger than the ones confided to us.

T: But Even if they were to make a bigger vocal box, it could never hold all the screams contained in my body, in my soul. They can't think of anything deep or large enough to contain all those, nothing like the pits within our brains where we keep our demons. They can't invent the cages we keep our seven sins at bay in, but they keep trying, acting as if they've figured it out with their mass produced goods and their churches and their high-rise buildings. But no matter how many downloads, uploads, upgrades, or new products they create, none will ever be enough.

B: None will ever be enough to hide what this broken ribcage has to hide! This Purple Heart is swelling up in my chest and filling up the chasm of my throat, suffocating my screams and crushing my delicate lungs and pushing itself against the individual ribs like a water balloon against a tiny blade of grass getting ready to POP POP POP! Like the popcorn on that apricot tree because I'm definitely high off my ass! High off of all the shit you feed me, all the awful things you say to make me feel like my heart needs to explode. Needs to let the blood drain from my body carrying the words of my sorrow down my broken jaw like a blackened alphabet soup. Let it flow, let it flow, let.


It.



FLOW.



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