I built a prison
And so often it changes colour
Through its window
You can see the world
So ugly and so vain
You could hold the bars
And stare outside
Yearning for a taste
Of the gloom and pain
But you're bound
With shackles made of silence
From which you cannot recover
It's a lonely place,
This dreary prison
And your mind will turn
Into a foe
Your bones will grow weary
And you'll always be cynical
Your nails will drag down the walls
And the pounding will never stop
Thump-thump, thump-thump
It will pulse through the ground
The torn walls
And flaying tendons
Will flood you with their ichor
You'll want to move,
To make it stop
Stop the life from spilling
But you can't,
You'll lay on the ground
Letting my heart
Take you prisoner

You were so close to me.
Every heart beat pumped you closer to me.
But you were just poison being injected in.
I tore my heart out before it could beat again.

We stretched the horizon,
Our pallet decorated the sky,
For one sweet moment it was just you and I.
Your sunshine kissed my closed eye lids.
Even when they were closed you still managed to seep through,
I couldn’t escape the image of you.

But you set in that sun,
And never rose again.
You took the warmth with you,
After all you put me through.

It is painful to feel you.
What was once petals is now thorns.
Bleeding me from every pour,
But you don’t seem to care at all.

You handed me a revolver,
And urged me to pull the trigger.
It was hard for me to tense my finger,
But you convinced me that this was for the better.

Never ask a poet what they think
about the things that matter.
They will not give a definite answer
for their hearts tend to ache
somewhat too severely
and even then some things
are better left unsaid
unfinished
in a black and white world
where any shade of grey is a crime
somewhere over the rainbow
in a place where it is the safest
to not be there at all
or else you are certainly the one to blame
even if the lace is buried deep within
your overwhelming guilt and shame
hidden under all the what ifs and pleats
and somewhere deeper yet
there is the quietest of voices
too afraid to speak of the bruises
left on the inside of her thighs
and within her heart
the voice of reason that tells you
please don’t walk down that alley
keep your friends close
and the keys in your hand closer
keep your head up high
and your hopes down low
or whatever else makes sense
in this dog eat dog world
where everything you will ever know
will be shredded and recycled
oh, if only
to be crushed into a pulp
and spoon-fed to another generation
diluted with careful consideration
into a day-in day-out nine to five
not even a cog in the machine
a ***** at best
and you will be *******
tightened up more and more
until you can’t hold it together
and whatever it takes
falls apart into pieces
broken glass on the asphalt
a hole in the wall
that sinking feeling
where a soul should be
but the angels don’t visit anymore
or answer our prayers
the line is always busy
there is always something else
something more important
a bullet in the bible
escalating into emergency
but who is out there for the unarmed boy
dying on the sidewalk
misjudged for the colour of his skin
who is out there to stop the hand of a father
suspended in mid-air
with the children cowering at his feet
who is out there for the American dream
turning into a global nightmare
who can tell the pending future
staring down the barrel of the gun
wondering which side you should be on
and what of that which you call freedom
only to trade it for martyrdom
what of candour and justice
and their antonymous nature
what of the artists and the poets
and everyone else that took a shot
but didn’t even come close
living in a daydream
playing from the same broken record
telling us that there is meaning
and there is worth in the things we do
except that from time to time
the needle would skip
distorting the vision
and at times like these
it’s the easiest to look away
for every scratch on the surface of reality
encourages you simply to
pull the trigger

No.
I will not, I refuse
to let this get the best of me.
The pen is a blade. I slit my wrist
and pour my heart out onto the page
instead. This is a sacrifice
I am willing to make.
I will tear myself apart
on my own terms.
If I cannot do it myself,
who else will?