The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

Lights flicker lamentfully leaning left. The metallic groan of the ship echoes through its chasms. It travels swiftly growing soft as it ventures further into the depths. The crash of waves ceaselessly chanting like an old drinking song. Cargo shifts suddenly straining against its restraint. The dank and damp deck is desolately decorated. In the dim light shadows torture the imagination with visions of fantastic nightmares and beautiful beasts. A violent stop sends you reeling backwards. You’re stomach fills with lead as you reluctantly climb to your feet. The door cracks open to reveal hollow eyes. As the door widens you are greeted by a devilish grin belonging to a devilishly handsome fellow. He exstends his hand but not in offering. No, this was a sinister demand. With shaking hands you sacrifice two golden coins to his strong hand. He grins and holds the door open for you with grandeur. Your breath catches in your thoat. Fear strangles you silently spreading though your body. Paralysis plagues you presently playing with your mind. But this is no time for fear. This is time for peace. So with closed eyes and baited breath you pass through the door and into eternity.

I watch my breath dance through the air.
It swirls and glides beautifully until it dissipates in the wind. I take in a deep breath letting the icy air fill my stale lungs. I instantly regret it as they reject the cold in the wonderful way my lungs do. I find myself gasping for air in between the coughs. This time it knocks me to my knees. I note how striking crimson is in the snow. Slowly I drag myself to my feet. How many was that today? Five? Six? I’ve lost track ever since I’ve gotten sick there doesn’t even need to be a trigger for an attack to happen and they’ve been growing more violent by the day. I can’t say I’m not scared. In fact I’m terrified because no one knows exactly why I’m getting worse. But even that would be more bearable if I wasn’t doing it alone.

You took away not only my body but my sense of saftey. Leaving only this empty shell and incessant paranoia. If only I had the courage to scream but it seems that you stole that too. Plucking everything that I was away from me one peice at a time. What did you do with all these peices? Do you still have them thrown in a box somewhere next to some old comics? Or did you throw them away just like you threw me away as soon as you found someone better?