THOSE spaces

The world outside is still
Not quiet, but still
Still
A little bit stuck, perhaps
In a thin space
A still space
A stuck space.

And so I am still
Not quiet, but still
Still
And a little bit stuck
A lot stuck
Still.

My head goes to Poe and Plath
And the meaning of life and death
And then I hate myself a bit for being
One of THOSE
Writers who sits around and ponders death.
Then, doubly so, I hate myself
For being
One of THOSE
Writers who sits around and hates themselves.

I can't decide
What life or death mean
Or if it's right, to hate yourself
For being still
Stuck.

Quiet

I remember being a teenager and thinking that I was the only one screaming on the inside.
Why is no one afraid?
Why does no one else see?
Why is the darkness apparent to me?
I silenced my screams to seem brave.

Now that I am older, I realize I'm not the only one.
Some are screaming out loud.
Some are screaming on the inside, too.
And those with the inside screams, like me, are just as good at acting brave
When we should be screaming out loud.

And so we scream alone.