something's got an iron grip on my heart and i know it's not a person but there's no doubt in my mind that there are fingers squeezing the blood out of my heart like a ripe orange, trying to stop the beat beat my chest is being controlled by an invisible hand that is crushing my ribcage and compressing the most delicate parts of me oh im sorry that i can't love you but dear god i cannot breathe somebody please help my face is turning blue all i'm looking for is an escape from this hell can't you hear me screaming i am choking on stale air i am tired of where i am oh
living is difficult when you've forgotten how to breathe

Poets have to be melancholics?
Well ****.
The Earth does not contain a soul lacking bleak thoughts.
Thoughts that we pertain that drive us crazy and carry out the drive spitting those thoughts into words.
however,
they're killing us.
They swallow us whole and we feel trapped in the belly of it with slimy walls of hatred.
Once there, it is easiest to sit in the stomach and let it digest us and dissolve us apart.
But what if one day we just turned our minds to realize that the stomach is connected to the tunnel up the mouth providing a beacon of light.
After that odyssey one should write about the courage and faith it took to escape the dark, gloomy stomach.
As if praying,
I was taught by a reverend long ago to pray in the dark times,
and to pray in the light times.
So whether it's dark or light or maybe just gray,
write about it.