Born in anger, fear, or stress,
the little Scream starts inside.
He wants to get out, to see the world,
but he is trapped and chained.
He starts in the head, a tiny voice,
“Won’t you set me free?”
But then he grows as time goes on,
and falls into the chest.
The Scream hits the ribs,
bounced around, bruises his cage,
but still is confined to prison.
Screams feed off of sorrow,
of pain and doubt and rage.
He grows so fast, so big, so strong,
and claws his way upstream.
Up out of the chest, into the throat,
and digs into the vocal folds.
“LET ME OUT!” he cries, desperate for light.
He’s only known the inside,
damp and dark and small.
But the throat convulses, swallowing,
and squashes the Scream for good.
His corpse falls into the stomach,
A heavy grave forevermore.

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