There is something innate about being outspoken

Almost a violence in every spoken word

As they fall from an open mouth, without control.

There is a certain vivid nature to that of the syllable

Especially when you can not control which comes when

And the words are merely emotional pathways.

There is a special place in my head where I do not speak

I hold my tongue, and remember the self-control

But this is only fictional.

There is an accepted emptiness to a blank page

A quiet fondness of the solidarity in silence

A blanket loving of the nothingness.

There is a sharp pain in the words that they say

Almost like a blunt blade through the flesh

Straight to the heart.

There is a dull ache in this broken heart

Not from the heartbreak itself but the guilt

That this happened once again.

There is a soft sound that only we can hear

One that lingers in our souls for eternity

Reminding us of where we've been.

There is a finality of life and death

That can't be explained in a word

But simply with a poem.