I'm done staring at the ceiling,
laying unfeeling,
and counting the peelings
from chipped paint
that's gone soft from the rain,
busted pipe,
and a broken drain.
Questions filling my brain,
I doubt my own pain,
hoping to rid myself of disdain,
so I don't feel the need to over explain,
pent up feelings
of dealings
that I need to put to rest.
Clearing out my chest,
the beatings in my ribcage
that still the breath beneath my breast.
Stop being so obsessed
with the unintentionally harsh jest,
spoken by a guest
who never could've guessed
that the words flying out of their mouths
would be a haunting that possessed,
leaving the body still with cardiac arrest.
It's not fair for me to be responsible
for cleaning up each syllable
that's incapable
of being distillable,
no matter the process.
It's either repress and compress the excess,
or confess and address to express the distress,
so I can stand up and progress,
access and obtain success
nonetheless.

BY: J.M.M.POWELL

© J.M.M.Powell