They cannot see what they do;
The seperation, the argument and closed-minded confrontation, damaged by selfishness of view and heart.
I break chisel against the walls in their minds.
The abundant fault: being supportive mostly, but not when most important.
No, my voice is afterthought.
They cannot see what they do to me;
My silence kills, and the coping spurs dissonance in shared lives;
Causes more harm than I can help.
I freeze in space, shoot down men, honest or insencere, wielding guns and knives in calloused hands.
Carnage speaks when my voice cannot, trapped behind sewn lips despite my shouting.
Words are written for no one. Scribbled on pages they will not see for reasons they will never know.
Nor will they admit their role in the life found through lives of others.
They do not understand, and so they condemn, rendering innocence all the more base.
Revelling in an intellect unmatched, yet unable to perceive the cause of a broken spirit.
So words are written for wavering trust,
For months of knowing better,
For years of planted thoughts and untrusted motive,
For impossibilites, imperfections and mistakes;
And for the life I would rather be living - genuine in existence.
[Image Credits: "Don't Feel so Alien" by myself. See the full image on my deviantArt page: http://flarekitty.deviantart.com/art/Dont-feel-so-alien-433498641]