July 21st, the last time I did a poem.
      I'm losing my creative flow,
  I'm losin what I would call.      
                         Home....
               I'm dying
         In my locked cell
   Behind,            Closed doors.
              There is no escape.
        And.                           You find yourself wonder
      Is.    There.         Life.        For.      Me.      On.    
         This planet
         Or.             The next
         I run my own race
                              And I come in last against myself.
So riddle me this?
                          Should I move the knife away
                  From my neck.
              Or...             Should I drag in slowly across
             My.             Throat.
                       You decide.
       Cause I'm done helpin myself.
                                    Cause I always come...

                In.        Last.        Place.