When I breathe, my mouth tastes just like metal.
I feel dark somethings roiling up inside.
And so I wait in hopes that it might settle,
So no one might imply I haven’t tried.

There is some poison lives within my soul.
And it has bred and hatched and grown full well.
So whilst it grows, my heart burns black as coal,
These things I say will damn me sure to hell.

This pressure – ribs and skull – will make me burst.
And what leaks out, the Devil only knows.
What started “bad” will surely turn to “worst.”
What greater good does this dilemma pose?

How easy, then, to pluck a knife?
A few quick strokes, to ease the strife.


ATC by the Author, 2011.


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