As lips are crushed,
fingers bound, too
she roars in silence, pained,
at what she cannot do.
The typer won't type,
the words won't flow,
I wouldn't either
were I coming from a sad soul so.
It's an angry castle wall
that lowers her chin,
instead of keeping enemies out,
it keeps them in.
Her ears are stained,
silence without,
to the eye untrained
she has no doubt.
They don't see lips crushed,
or fingers bound, too,
or her roar in silence,
or what she can't do.
They don't see a writer
blocked at the tongue,
they don't see a thanatophobic girl slowly being hung.
All their eyes
glued to sky
only see what they see
if it makes it's way by.
They're not watching for words
or pulling them from inside
they wouldn't understand
why, over this, she cried.
But her lips are crushed,
fingers bound, too,
and she roars in silence, pained,
at what she cannot do.