White Paper

I flinch from the white paper that is placed in front of me.
Because words can no longer be written delicately over my fragile heart.
The ink seeps pass my thin walls and blackens the valves.
Once stained, the paper cannot return to it's original form.
Something is wrong with this image
A mark that cannot be removed no matter how much bleach was applied.
Why?
But.
The more stains, the less lonely the paper would be.
Cover up the white. Layer the numbness with activity so there is no room.
No room for thoughts. No room for endless torture. No room for myself.
Do what ever you may. I don't care. Be incoherent as you like.
It's not realism. It's turmoil. It's Chaos.
Me.
Plug in the guitar. Raise the volume to full blast.
Drown in my silent screams.
Quiet because there's nothing there.
In my mind, there is only emptiness.
Everything is just make believe.
There are no ghosts nor goblins haunting me.
Yet.
Why can't I sleep?
What wakes me up at night, with no return?
Silence.
In the end, all those beautiful colours just drip away.
Slowly like tears that are stubborn to shed.
All that's left is white paper and an eerie silence.
Rainbows are merely a facade.