Sometimes verses come freely
At others, I choke
Like the deepest parts of my conscience
Remains lodged in my throat
And I can feel myself dying in some lines that I wrote
Gasping for air in attempts to just cope
My pen ravaging paper in desperate self hope...
 
Fighting this innate desire to breathe
Bitterly rejecting my only successful reprieve
Walking around angry, soul ill at ease
Wanting to swallow each page exposing the true me
Praying to all Gods for some spiritual release
Terrified of ever recoiling from sore, bent knees
 
Past experiences are like walls caving in
Putting forth a strong shell or at least I pretend
Whilst inwardly battling the wage of every sin
Committed to appease my environment back then
And simply talking like I've already met this happy end
Is to open myself up as my own best friend...
   Coincidentally I write again -