and i gave you my voice,

to have,

to use,

to scream,

but you kept silent,

words meant nothing,

for hands with a brush,

but they meant the world,

to my soul of prose,

give it back,

if it wasn’t for you to use,

you’ve hand me nothing,

but wearied promises,

of an empty heart,

now my throat is sore,

from screaming,

to a soul,

with no ears,

and no voice of her own.