Young Writers Society

The quiet screams.

It chases me down

never-ending corridors

unto the 9th circle of hell.

I exaggerate but it does follow me.

It creeps around corners

and it whispers my name.

It follows me into my dreams

where it turns slumber into

slaughter and I am left alone

in the agonizing void of...quiet.

.

I keep to myself mainly.

It is easier that way.

I see friends laugh in groups.

I see mother's holding new born

infants wrapped in blue cotton

to their chest whilst it aimlessly

reaches to suckle upon her swollen teat.

I see fathers and sons,

mothers and daughters,

people confining to their

appropriate gender roles.

I see boys reaching for a barbies.

I see the mothers slapping their hands.

.

I see certain things I wish I didn't.

I see people crying alone on park

benches as break-ups.

I see babies look after

swollen helium sacks

as they float towards

the skies to unattainable heights.

I see a father and mother bury their

thirteen year old son who killed himself.

Because sticks and stones may

break and batter and shatter his bones,

but it's the noose that stops his breathing.

.

I am often asked why I keep to myself.

I never have an answer.

I see things I don't want to see;

I see graffiti swears upon church doors.

I see those pastors with pickets

preaching their prophet, our Lord,

making martyrs out of teenagers

who weep in the pews because their

heavenly father condemns as much

as their earthly one.

.

I see a lot of things.

A lot of things see me.

We both remain quiet.

Perhaps we shouldn't.