my souls become heavy with the colors of my thoughts

and you keep reminding me that these stains don't wash out.   i don't need your gestures anymore.  the notepad in my head is rung   and my ink stained hands to show for the pen that can't get any words out.  i write, and i write, and i write,  but i can't stop the sensors of my paranoia cautioning thoughts i dare to make a reality,   so my page stays blank.  and i stare.  at a wordless page that sends a message far deeper than i could ever convey  but even that, i won't let sell.  the frustrated sketches and ink blots turn to daisies and sun rays because there's no words to write worth calling more attention to the lost.   no.  look very closely at your audience.  and stay skeptical.  because words are only but a futile message, when the stains of your soul are only visible to the eye of the beholdeR.