Inspired by old scribbles

Mistake

I hate the way you cause my head to think the things I do,
my issues turn to concrete doubts -
and all scream that it's you.

But searching for a clear answer, when things just aren't the same,
just causes pressure, and then starts
an endless waiting game. 

The problems that make so much sense when written on a page,
soon jumble up and get confused;
when yelled in bouts of rage.

I wish I hadn't said those things that brought us to this place,
now silence flutters freely,
and blankness roams the face.

I think I'd rather have a glare or hear you raise your voice,
than have to see you walk away,
and now I have no choice.