Scribbling on a grey saturday morning...

A scream rises
from the depths of my inside,
gathering steam on the way
and yet
when it reaches
its moment of fulfilment
I cant find the voice
to shout it out.
To let it out.
Or the will, perhaps,
to lend a word to it?
Disappointed,
it quietens
and waits within me
for another time,
another day,
when it will rise again.
Perhaps.

They tell me
my life is in my hands.
In the lines
of my palm maybe?
The mish-mash of them.
Like a web
they hold my future
and apparently,
my past.
My secrets, my history.
I clench my palms
even tighter,
trying hard to hold on to
my life.
Yet when I open them
the lines have escaped.
Like the steam that escapes
a scream, before it becomes
A scream.