Grief gathering like sand grains
Inside your hollow bones
Renders you a sluggish
Slow-moving piece of stone
Hair-thin incisions
Unseen though always bare
Like tiny acts of treason
Mark you here or there
Random thoughts come knocking
Then leave you once again
Quite often most unwelcome
In your dishevelled brain
Frustration and annoyance
Confusion, disbelief
Are all your frequent callers too
All courtesy of grief
On a brink of madness
Rage and suicide
Desperate for some freedom
Clawing from inside
Out of your crumbling shell
Your tired old cocoon
You’re praying it would happen
And would happen soon
You turn dissociated
A little out of touch
Holding feelings at arm-length
For fear you’d feel too much
That they’d come raging through you
Like mudslide though a town
Ripping things long lost and gone
From underneath the ground
You guess you should be thankful
For knowing how to write
Expressing your self-hatred
And lamenting your plight
You feel a little lighter
As they keep pouring out
Though writing is your second choice
You’d rather write than shout
You open up your mouth
But out comes no sound
It peeks out very anxious
And opts to stick around
A little less detachment
Self-doubt and self-control
And your unspoken anguish
‘D be proudly heard by all.
You wish those moving pictures
All tragically noir
Would leave as soon as possible
Your brain’s repertoire
You’d soak up blissful emptiness
And quietness of thought
And lament not the painful things
You’d seemingly forgot