I am what they call 'The Scream'
I’m not screaming, I am just existing
In unharmonious moments-
My silence is a scream.
'The hands of Tietze' is my head;
Erica’s hands are my tongue-
I’m a trembling, anxious melancholic
But my hands are very calm.
There is disquiet at night,
When Devil’s thoughts purge mine
Violent tears, violent numbness
But my home is not a 'House at Night'.
The scars on my wrist are contorted
Like the women on 'Street, Berlin' -
My eyes- out of focus, like their hats
My thoughts- an alien burden.
'Mad Woman' paints my reality black-
Tension flooding through orifices.
The other one throttles my dreams, and
Takes away my memories.
I gaze far afar, my body is filled
With medicines- 'The Portrait of a Man'
Gazes right back at me, and
Thinks how destructive I’ve been.