There is so much that makes me want to scream.

To desolate my surroundings and pierce the chokehold of silence with my pain,

insight chaos,

anarchy,

let my blade and my seething teardrops,

bullets of burning ice 

sear through this maddening, sickening, laughable reality and rip the needle from the broken record player.

But I cannot move,

I cannot rage,

I cannot speak.

My voice is on mute and my bruised fists pound pointlessly against the fourth wall,

but no one stops to look.