Fred Aiken Writing

singing about silent abuse in the closet made of rubber

as all sound bounces through the vibration

and no one knows the pain of my depression as it sketches down

each vein

made out of thin thread poking through the skin

held tight over muscle bound to respect laws of physics

oppressed by the gravity crashing

always down

looking down

feeling down

alone and making up words to call my own,

with feelings I don’t know