A ceremony in disguise,
Protective animus inside.
Twist gold on fingers crucified,
Next in a line for sacrifice.

Please don't panic,
Its under control.

The spirit forcing its way out,
Selective hearing, angry mouth.
We hear it whispering the doubts.
Drowning love in times of drought.

Please don't panic,
Its under control.

Experimented on in dreams.
Through walls and sleep they carried me.
Offer the fish but no one chases.
Somebody's been here,
Someone faceless.

Please don't panic
Its under control.

I write poetry to forget you. Hoping with every clever word phrase, you'll find your way out of my memory.
I just want you to know, betwixt all these fancy words and captivating images there's a broken girl who sits dangerously at the end of a piece of drift wood as a tornado approaches the shores of a distance beach.
There's a crooked smile singing the praises of some self found confidence that could be bottled and sold in the nearest gag shop.
There's a record player in my chest rotating the same three songs all with the same sad tune of "maybe this time". There's an empty casket going into an unmarked grave for feelings I thought we could share but never quite died.
There's a timid hand shake wrapped in insecurities doused in ambition and remorse for the words and actions that lacked excitement when I took the hand of some fragment that should have replaced you.