Weird, sorta emo poem

I was at a concert last night, and the smell of BO, beer, and cigarettes in a cramped room must have gotten to me. I wrote the following lines of poetry:

Can you hear the truth of the words of the silent?

The truth that we’re all dead

The truth it’s in your head

Hell from the sax, in a cold, whispered rasp

Can you grasp the truth of the sounds of the voiceless?

Cymbals twisted into deathly faces Blood scores across her cheek

Go and seek the truth of the voice of the muted

the surreal touch of the night seeps in

bleeds into your pulse. you begin

to believe that the streets can breathe.