These Words.

Again, very old. Looking back at it, it's kinda over dramatic. I tried to portray when you need to say something, but can't.

Oh, how often this pain visits me.
I question how much is real, and how much is fake.
All the regret pooled inside of my veins.
Everyday I watch it slowly push it's way towards my mind.
Every drop a little cut.

It buries deep in my soul, producing this laceration of the throat.
Letting the words bleed out instead of vocalizing them.
As I watch the letters drip out, 
I wonder if I could speak through it.

Every time I try the wound gets deeper, and threatens to decapitate.
And in that case, I would get closer to losing the only thing I have left,
My sanity.

Author's Note

Again too old for me to care much about.