Inside me they rise up like bile--
Black bile, made up of black inky words,
Words that I cannot speak,
Because there is nobody to tell.
I feel them heavy on my chest--
A burden that I bear, but not of guilt,
Just misery and constriction,
And I have nobody to tell.
In my mind they are printed--
Harsh and dark, far too permanent,
But I cannot free them,
Since I have nobody to tell.
Everything that I write is tainted--
Unable to escape from pain's grasp,
It turns into a metaphor,
And yet there is nobody to tell.
I long to speak of what I know--
Everything I have heard and felt,
But I know that no one listens,
And I know there is nobody to tell.