The tiny rocks, the Army socks,
“****, it’s hot,” my shoelace knots,
My fiddling hands, the holes with sand,
My diet’s bland, and cause I can,
I speak a word, but that’s a sin.
I get called out; I just can’t win.
My friend, his card, I give it back,
Go back to fiddling, ”This **** is whack.”

I find more rocks, they’re in my socks.
“****, it’s still hot,” I tug my knots
With my free hand covered in sand.
My ****’s shut up, because I can’t.

Tonight, I dreamed of killing someone
While lying, awake, in my bed.
I grabbed at his neck,
And bruised up his flesh-
My hands shook, as I wanted him dead.

I tore at his eyes,
I called out his lies,
And now here I am breaking lead.

I bit at his wrists,
As his hands turned to fists
From the anger his body was fed.

Tonight, I dreamed of killing someone
Who failed his attempt at controlling me.
So I picked up this book,
And the red lights I took,
And stopped the shaking with poetry.