I write despite the growing night,
For the fight inside my mind,
My words succumb to a litany run,
It’s a solace that I find,

Shallow breath,
I dance with death ,
For twisted inspiration,
Pushing back the limits for my selfish liberation,

I laugh and cry,
And try and try,
Yet nothing feeds my paper
Dizzy from the taste of pride,
Tired of this Labor,

Giving in and giving up,
Surrendered to the storm,
I’m the author of my slaughter,