I’m a prisoner of my own mind,
desolate and lonely within my mental hell,
a consequence of self-loathing
as the inner demons confine me well.
My history is long
of pretending to be someone I’m not,
living a lifetime of deceit and arrogance
until who I really am I’ve nearly forgot.
My age and past have caught up,
and I’m too feeble to make a break,
too weak now to even care;
another mindless day, I just can’t take.
The marrow in my bones has turned to lead,
a heavy anchor in a rising tide,
where every word I should have safely said
is buried in the silt where secrets hide.
The rusted bars of shame are fused to bone,
a skeleton that’s learned to love its cage,
until the self I might have once have known
is just a ghost upon a yellowed page.
Filed away in the depths of obscurity,
waiting to be discovered and read
by the cold dead fingers of solitude.
The ink has bled into a shapeless stain,
a Rorschach blot of all I failed to be;
no longer man, but sediment and pain,
dissolving in this lightless inner sea.
The heartbeat is a dull and distant thud,
a rhythmic ticking in a hollow chest,
where oxygen is swapped for stagnant mud
and every labored breath becomes a test.
Now my skeletal remains decay
in this hushed grave of pathetic brevity,
feeding the desolate and starved soil
as my respiratory efforts fail entirely.
Death of the soul is now a reality
as the last light fades into blackness,
and my stagnant sea has dried to salt,
leaving only the insects to bear witness.
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Author:
notapoet (
Offline) - Published: September 26th, 2026 12:52
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 1
Offline)
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