There was a boy that was hidden within the cobweb
cracks of my mind. He created
dead ends, turned the floor
into a graveyard and made me play
with the thought:
I am no hero and I never was.
The thought was like a yarn ball
it unravels turning into a
revolver, the chamber is full.
I shoot, but the boy with
midnight sky eyes with
pulps like silver stars was
a fragment of a hallucination.
I was the target
that was filling
themselves with holes.
"Stop fighting, you won't win."
His voice was like
branches scraping off
each other's bark.
Crack
Both of us looked up
the sky
the roof of my mind
was fracturing
jigsaw edges lined each side.
He smiled with crooked
teeth like gravestone
markers placed by people
that didn't care.
Crack
My fingers brushed my face
they traced a fracture that had formed
down my right eye and around my check.
The cracks bleed making smaller
ones entwining with flesh.
"I'm breaking you, there's the proof.
I'm winning this fight.".
Wicked mocked, but fingers
kept tracing cut glass edges.
"You're right, this crack...
It does prove how much damage
you've caused, but you're wrong,
you're not winning this fight.
This fracture is proof that I
haven't been fighting back
as much as I should.
I won't let you,
my Wicked Mind consume me."
YOU ARE READING
Dear: Hell
PoetryThe elevator broke now death played with you all night. - Hell's Deal ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Sometimes monsters are real, sometimes Hell is fictional, but both have impacted many lives. So, take seat with some coffee and enjoy this poetry collection.
