I am sitting in an empty space that is not mine I hate this space I am cramped and it's almost too
stuffy to breathe and as I sit in this detested seat out of range of understanding others' speaking I
am raging inside The rage is building and has nowhere to go I am sick sick SICK of speaking an
d not being heard like every **** thing I say doesn't mean **** to anybody I say the same fucki
ng thing five times in a row and even then I'm not really heard with understanding There's hardl
y any recognition that I have even bothered to open my mouth God forbid my opinion have any
standing anywhere on anything until somebody realizes too late that I already said this was goin
g to happen And I write these words and I know that if they are read they will still be misunderst
ood Even if they are comprehended by someone willing to read them And this just makes the rag
e boil harder in the pit of my stomach I feel sick I don't know why I even try It's so pitiful It's the f
act that I understand that I am never heard or listened to that keeps me from speaking now. I can
't say these words. But I guess that's the reason I can let them flow onto paper and take frustration
out on anybody who chooses to read what I have to say. My pain in my silence is the only thing
reminding me that in this case, my pain is my silence, better in than out, because nobody gives a
**** and it doesn't matter anyways.