A Silent Riot

A short poem I found that I had written in my journal from two years ago.

When my world gets quiet,
my hands get cold.
It's a silent riot,
and I feel so old.
How did I end up here?
You had such high hopes.
Enslaved by blind fear.

But they say hope floats.

Sometimes I just sit and cry,
and I can't help but to ask myself why.
These changes feel like chains,
and these rivers dry up the rain.
Nothing but pleasure from pain.