Poems from the dark

Ana on trial

This is My publishable offense.
The end all and be all of courtroom mishaps.
The jury made up of of a group of my fears.
A signed confessions sealed with tears.
A Text tone gavel is the judgement strike.
I wonder what fresh hell has come to light.
The two accused parties sit in solemn smiles.
The first smells of vomit,
the second defiles,
everyone in the room with her eyes.
Sees only what she calls the truth,
and we tell her are lies.
We give them each names,
Give them a place,
Defend the accused in this hostile race.
The prosecutor with only his best intentions,
Tries to provoke witnesses with gentle mentions of stature and graces,
But he can't break a word from gaunt faces.
He's put in his place as the defense rattles up one big long statement.
Against the Bereavement that he's let fall down upon his clients.
His alignment full throttle.
He presents into evidence a bottle.
With lipstick on lips,
mine and the bottle,
he's pulling out a model case to prove calorie intake.
"There must be a mistake,
the young miss last from this drank."
A judge can know so much better than what they're presented,
but when well represented,
he can only accept the appointed evidence.
The fears will only hear what they allow into residence.
They'll pass judgement based on what they've chosen to see,
I won't be set free,
my made up face hid away what they didn't see.
Is victory,
Victory that goes down in history,
Is it all ends in death and in misery.