They don't even help anymore.
Words come so empty behind closed doors.
Endlessly beneath the tongue they sit.
Unheard by the lost joy of expression of what's missed.
N they fall short jus before delivered.
Rambling on pages stepped outta the minds sliver.
Coming on jus past the feel falling out.
Yet don't sound the same released from the mouth.
Open wounds bled dry they speak with silence.
No depth. No comfort for the unrest of defiance.
Simply flowing without reason to be ignored by time.
Dumping on pages what this is as what's left of life.
Saddened testimonies spilled is all there is.
Spoiled jus prior to connecting to my own lips.
As pages fill of unrecognizable will to stay.
Yet, there will n shall come a day...