(1836 - 1911 / London / England)

Quiet Desperation

Sitting in quiet desperation,
wanting to be able to talk - finding that I cannot.

Insides turning over - flipping out, because of stress,
being tuned in to a past that fills me with fearful dread.

Knowing that to talk is best, I find I cannot do it even
though it would lay to rest all memories of yesterday.

Living in a secret hell, wanting to get through it all,
but never tell a soul about it.

Sitting here in quiet desperation, filling my soul with
prayers - unanswered. Hopes unfulfilled.

Crying deep inside, afraid to get angry and yell four-
letter words.

Afraid that I will go to hell, because of what I might

Knowing all along the hell I'm living is the worst kind.
Sitting in quiet desperation, praying and letting myself
go to God.

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