My chest is tightening,
While I struggle to keep my form high functioning.
Now I see nothing alas my own soul,
Still desiring for someone to aid me for control.

What a wicked thing to do,
Watching me crack as I stare back at you.

My mirrors have peculiar perceptions,
Stained with finger prints within every direction.
I collapse in a black hole out of vain,
Decide yourself if my loss caused you any pain.

As I dance with my demons in a cold atmosphere,
As I sing the lines of the Panic Sonnet in no fear.
As I take my final bow to the crowd of adrenaline,
As I glare at the closing curtains of every burden.

© Jessica Lauren Faye Terry