I sit here,
Confused and
Disoriented.
Crying a complexed cry,
Tears streaming down my face, masked in ink.
It burns when I blink,
It hurts when I think.
My brain is spinning and my eyes are dimming because of the excruciating pain that I feel inside,
Signing my name on the dotted line as if I signed my life over to the devil,
Hammering my head like a nail until I’m below his level.
What can I do?
Why doesn’t anyone understand my pain and my fear that I hold dear to my heart?
My body,
My soul, torn apart.
Even if you told me to lay back in the chair, I couldn’t even fathom the thought of knowing where to start or how to talk about how these words have been pierced through my body,
Ink pouring out as I reach for my pen;
But,
My hand has stopped.
Crunched and crackled upon by my worst enemy,
Communication.
Please!
Please give me my pen!
I’ll write down everything,
Where it began and where it’s going to end and, the depths of hell that lay within my soul as it’s sucked out of my body,
Waiting for the aftermath.
To see the shell of my former self.
What am I to do without my pen?
The rage that lays deep inside of me as I fight the urge to turn into the hulk and,
Crush everything!
Life, death, people, kids!
Nobody is safe but I won’t stop fighting until you give me my pen and let me write the words that I fail to speak of!
My pen,
My paper,
Both are keeping you alive
Will you surrender or,
Will you be the result of a poet's cry?

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