Is it the feelings across your face?
Or the feeble dreams that you fake?
Or the things you release, into the air,
That silently seal my fate.
Music is the emotion words cannot find,
Poems speak, in clues undefined.
Writing for those who are able with words,
Thousands, for my expression, spring to mind.
Maybe it's the way you take then give,
As if guilty, when we both know it isn't real.
We've fabricated this world we're in,
On your terms or mine, the fractures heal.
The cracks caused by my insanity,
The cracks delivered by hand to me,
The cracks that luridly mar my skin,
The cracks that started when it all began.
Expression's never been my forte,
But I'd like to think I get by,
On poems and music and daydreams,
While expression, kills you and I.