real men admit to their tears.

inhale.

feel that breath jump. not quite a gasp. not quite not.
and your hands twitch a little. jumping key to key.
fingers speaking symphonies in words.
and this house is far too quiet to be a home.

and I'd beat myself to death if my fists wouldn't shatter
it's almost like I'm throwing glass stones at a steel mansion
scared to take a step. because this ice is so thin.
and I'd swear that these fractures resembeled my veins
stomping loud enough to make my arms go numb.
yet still suprised- when my heart freezes.

and I'd do a drunken dance on the tip of a crescent moon.
if it would illuminate this void.

offering a plea bargain to the stars- maybe there's still some magic left
sending words in the shape of smoke-rings.
listening for the truth when the sky starts breaking to pieces
that I ripped it into with the shards left of those shattered stones
I threw at the night.

and there are no words left to pray.
and there is no answer to the questions of time.
and we are all so useless
and this house is far too fucking quiet to call a home...



I'd exhale. but my breath has left me.