The thought to pour the drink into the keyboard and break the whole machine. The thought to use the knife and twist it in the dark to the neck of the righteous abuser, blinded by guilt and burning from fervor.

The twisted brain that makes the thoughts that drive the others away. The silence that brings the pain to the front from the depths of the craven mind. Seeking the pain, looking for the drought that comes from the nothing.

The black and the endless nothing that comes to the mouth of the world of thought, The nothing behind the smile that always gives and never acts on the retort of the twisted machine that always asks for more and never gives.

The excuse given and the reply that comes from the turned off brain of the proletariat that never thinks for itself, but just lets the strike get harder and enjoys the silence as those that should do not and those that can do nothing.

Giving the head the space to do but the constraints that never let it out, holding back the scream as the words that yearn to come out never do and the silence is deafening and also so quiet it almost screams for itself.

The words that never come and those that do that are never enough, just go to take away the protest of those that succumb to the frost and the doubt.

Next is me and then it is you, the verbose verbosity that never lies still.

The poem dead in the arms of the creator lies still and is creeping still.

Lie still heart, you are not dead yet, though that is your wish and your hardest regret.

Never forget I am here, I scream, I shout and I yearn for more though nothing can give.

Leave me here alone.

Leave me here in peace.

Leave me here to die in the quiet solace of the gunfire love of nothing.