Brittle Ol' Me

There is no hope, or so it seems. 
Even in my sleep I walk alone, unconsciously neglected by dreary dreams. 
My emotions bleed through any paper that captures thoughts, but my pen leads me to naught.
It ought to hold at least a single piece of my broken heart.
It may have been smart to restart my self esteem before an attempt to redeem the fine art in my concrete speech.
Instead, my scrawled letters can voicelessly crumble into piles of scattered screams.
Stale, weary screams too out of reach.