These Dark Lines

These torturous things,
These empty threats,
These dark lines,
Are only words.
Passing between my ears; yes,
But never truly being heard.
They are tiny nightmares
That fade with the dawn of a new day,
Taking flight upon the breeze
And falling to rest in the cemetery
Of false hopes and expired fears.

Note: I had to write this one because a friend read "Box" and thought I was suicidal or something. I've told him before, it's all just words, but apparently he doesn't get it. Now, maybe he will.