What is, This?

Dear This,

It hasn't been long since we talked but you're here again,

Scraping my every word, chalking my marks and dotting my Ts to very degrees of failure.

You've tangled the tango and messed my words into a foreign disaster,

a frightful distastement of longing and pastures awaiting to be frolicked yet all who may have perished at the bottom...of this.

All who agree say 'aye' but I bet you've hidden them away,

lost to the light of the night and the day,

swirling in their sleep and dreaming of the time and the reason to escape but none so true and powerful as the rose of folded passions,

lost to the depth of time.

You've messed with my tongue,

lolling it in a fit of rage,

boiling it in painful degrees of wealth yet none to cry out because of self-deprecation and hatred of varying extremes.

You've curdled the pain, stapled my mouth and tied my hands, 

standing on a barren street with a target and open arms, waiting for the fire.

Crying, tied, struggling against the holds that bind me but...

I succumb...to this.

This...has made me wordless.

And that is the worst that this can do.

Sincerely,

I, who is deaf to the world.