In that nicotine-stained room.
by the dim yellow shaded light,
the young man craved the silence
that only comes from an empty bottle,
a silent night,
where his own soundless sighs
no longer deafened him
With the heaviness they hold over him.
TV news was discussing a grunge icon
who ended it all with a shotgun.
Such a tragic waste, he though absently,
as his own scattershot
thoughts crashed around internally.
He wanted to empty the contents of his brain
like the scattered photos
that remained from a bad romance,
one where love turned to fear,
and the crack of eggshells
is all that you can hear
every time your feet start to pace.
Where all you are left is the bitter sting of pain,
the taste of blood,
and regret that you chose so wrong,
that you trusted too long,
that you let your heart
get dragged along for too many miles.
For love was a battlefield,
said someone in a song,
well, his war was over and done,
this he swore to his room
full of nothing and no-one.
He was just an unknown soldier
in a field of exes.
His race was run. The heartache
he swallowed down, tasted bitter
like the heartless liquor he was craving.
If only he knew the story wasn’t yet done.
He, still so young, had so many journeys to go on,
but in that moment of flooding, he gave in.
and his demons were just starting to rise up.
to take him by the hand
and lead him on a merry dance to hell and back.
I wish I could speak to him
and tell him that time
is kinder than it seems.
That in some future place,
he will see some happiness,
and he will live his dreams,
and that those soundless sighs
become less deafening over time.
