screams

The mother sings a hungry songOf blood and cracking teethShe dances in the dark belowwants to pull us underneathHer claws, they rise, they sway in danceto the melody of screamsHer lullaby will never endtill the world comes apart at the seams

Made you the subject of my dreams, I was always the first to hear your screams. Haven't you had enough of all these schemes? Re-run all the scenes...Haven't you noticed we're being a bit too extreme? I know not everything is as it seems, but aren't you tired of floating downstream?

Is it possible to write a poem or are these words just screams of outlaws exiled to the desert?

In an endless silence even screams sound silent.

Contrary to popular belief and hope, people don't usually come running when they hear a scream. That's not how humans work. Humans look at other humans and say, 'Did you hear a scream?' because the first scream might have been you screaming inside your head, or a horse backfiring.

No art is silent! Because art is an original idea and every original idea speaks, every interesting thought screams, every art talks, every art screams! No art is silent! If it is silent, then it is not an art!

Trauma is personal. It does not disappear if it is not validated. When it is ignored or invalidated the silent screams continue internally heard only by the one held captive. When someone enters the pain and hears the screams healing can begin.

What lies beneath this envelope of flesh and blood, hmm? Is it something special? Perhaps, when I peel it open, I will be able to see. Perhaps your screams will tell me everything I need to know.

I saw thousands of them. A sea of the dead that roared like an ocean! You would have heard them screaming toward you. It would have taken days to steer them away. Killing them? I don't think killing them would have been possible.

I remembered screaming then, screaming until my voice stopped.

Silence is a lie that screams at the light.

Hemingway is overrated,Twain is even more lost at sea,And all truths point to the mouth of a woman,Where both her whispers and her screams,Are born.Pour another glass, Beer, wine, whiskey,I don't care,So long as its wisdom is sharp,And it tells lies instead of promises.