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The Noose
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Lost to the world of my own penitence,
I'll suffer 'till the moment of my penultimate breath.
These feelings, these thoughts, a threat to my existence,
Retardant to the flames of my inner hearth.
Unable to break free of this psychosis,
I wander, i stutter, i stumble, i fall.
A stereotype to my diagnosis,
I'll still stand amidst it all.
The pain, nothing. The thoughts, everything.
Though they consist of alien diction, they're a product of me.
Ignore the marks, for I'm still breathing,
But unable to escape their gaze and be free.
Remove my band, expel the voices, and cut the noose.
My path was never mine to choose.
YOU ARE READING
Hints of Sanity
PoesíaMy writing... isnt like me. It's almost a different me writing. A me in the back of mind. Here I keep, some of my more, "different" poems.
