Chains bind us, hot and heavy;
the breath, the words, slight thoughts.
Weighing us down, sleepless nights,
fighting nightmares, dark, shapeless.
We resist, carry these marks.
We know who clasps the gold keys.
If our bodies turn ice cold
it is worth paying the price,
enslaved, we push through foul rough
just to see your displeased scowl.
We're the signs of your disease
sitting here, still bleeding more.
Imprisoned with our freedom,
no rescue from old tower.
YOU ARE READING
Sitting Here Thinking (2019)
PoetryShort poems of varying subjects and construction, but deep enough to be swallowed in. Written while sitting anywhere, lost in thought about everything and anything. These were written mostly in the year 2019. Please feel free to leave any feedback...
