Shout

She's sitting on a ledge,
on the edge,
wearing thin,
wearing out.
She doesn't want to talk,
She can't scream,
can't shout.
On the edge,
on the borderline;
of insanity,
vanity,
hypocrisy.
But she can't see.
The music's running
in and out.
Curling bells,
ring but not.
Scratching veins,
dry down to the blood,
The itchiness persists,
a ball of rage,
She can't shout.
The rumble of her heart is painful,
as the nails grow deep and out.
The murmur of her mind is peaceful
but she'll never
see G-d.

2-17-09
8:19 P.M.