the tumbleweeds
roll
across the desolate landscape
of a mind
in crisis
screaming into the void
until
blood on the vocal chord lining
makes it all
a hoarse whisper
nothing calls back
or if it does
it falls on deaf ears
deadened
by the day
grit
blown by the constant gales
shreds through flesh
through bone
through existence
yet still he tries
to reach to the other side
of a busy signal
for a faint hope
hanging off the hook
Mike's Manic Word Depot 
Nice!
“screaming into the void
until
blood on the vocal chord lining
makes it all
a hoarse whisper”
My favorite stanza ā„ļøšš
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i sort of wrote it all based on those lines.
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That makes sense. Real good work here
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