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 Apr 2018 laila shaaban
Barker
I see you standing there
I can see the pain masked by a smile
I can see how broken you are

I want to help you
I want to make you feel wanted
I want to make you happy

But I don't know how
I don't know what to do
I don't know how to act

I wish I could help you
I want to help you
I can help you

I've been through this
I know how this works
I know how I got through this

Maybe I can heal those scars on your wrist
I just want you to open up
I need you to open up

I know that it is hard
I understand what this means
I might not understand completely

I can try to understand
I will understand
I just need you to trust me

Please
Let Me
Help You

Don't
Shut Me
Out
(c)ibarker

For the one who has my heart
prophet tongue with
stabbing perceptions
i gave him my name
while in bed.

soft white curtains
though still chamber thick
cold steel hands
and the room sliced into pieces
by morning light
but haunted by night sounds
crept into open wounds of the heart

chills.

his hand
resting on my thigh while he snores
summer bruised and adventurous
though callous youth
with his unbandaged scabbed knee
skating last night.

moment forgotten in the carride
but a stone monument staring
at me on the kitchen counter.
sorry michael.
I'm compartmentalizing my thoughts and delivering them to you on my tongue. Gift wrapped in a silver metallic paper, with a tiny pink bow on top that bounces jubilantly with every step I take. Waiting to be opened and heard, the gift sits on my tongue.

Sometimes no ears are lent so I swallow the thought and redigest it.  It falls into the black and finds itself trapped back in my head. It ricochets from wall to wall, eager to be released.

          One day I found out no one wants to listen.

So I bottle it all up, and the thoughts start getting crowded. I become scatter brained, my head hectic with inmates, jailed without a crime. They riot, burning me out each time. My head sizzles like road **** in the heavy heat.

                         It's time for a jailbreak!

I pick up a pen and release the inmates into my veins. They pump through me and fill me with life, violently pounding their way through my fatal heart. Once I channel their energy, they flow out my fingers, into the ink and onto the paper.

          They bleed as they're released, finally free,
singing the song of a man compartmentalizing his thoughts.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio

— The End —