In the chair I sit,
In the chair I've been,
The leather unforgiving straps,
hold me close.
The type of closeness being discomfited,
I recoil to my best ability,
For the chair burns my flesh,
I loathe the tingling I get,
From the unawareness of what lurks just behind me.
The door across from me,
that damned door,
Almost mocking my nerves,
Wide open; it stares,
Although I can't see past it.
I want to run,
I want to hide,
But the chair mustn't free me,
It holds me still for hours,
Sometimes it makes noises,
Sometimes it talks.
The open door,
The trapping chair,
The vulnerability,
Of being trapped here.
Oh God help me out from the binds of this chair.
YOU ARE READING
My poems, And Random Stuff
De TodoI am a soldier. I am the one that is always on the battlefield. With scratch marks, and bruises. I try to carry on, I try to see the light. I reach for my guns, to try and abolish the enemy. The ones that want me dead. But I can't anymore. I've bee...
