I grip the pen
cautiously, warily,
not wanting to make a
single
error.
This has to be perfect,
the type of perfect that,
Well, nothings ‘perfect’ but
in this mind’s eye she is.
That’s why this has to be
the most perfect poem
EVER!
I sweat with anxiety as my
chest fills up with cement,
my fingers trembling
ferociously, my pupils
dilating back and forth,
back and forth like a game
of ping pong.
I realize that I am
suffocating; but how can i
be suffocating when my
lungs respire as healthy as a newborn babes’? My
room is speckless and the
two windows on the
opposing walls are open.
I am suffocating mentally.
The pressure has become
to great, the walls appear
as if they are condensing,
and outside the sky is your favorite color,
GREEN.
Nothing is reality anymore,
I am trapped inside my ill ill mind,
my pen no longer harbors flavor, the paper
transforms into liquid and
the only door leading to
my expected freedom has vanished.
I am reduced to a broken egg
and with no other option, I regress
into a fetal position, cowering in
the green-ish corner,
dragging my shattered psyche with me.
And as this poem writes itself, cataloging
the events of my insanity,
I realize that I am
suffering for the
sake of my
art.
*Brother Poem to 'Her Captivity'
Copy Right 2012 | Robert Drake
Robert, I really like this, especially that last part when you say "And as the poem writes itself...sake of my art." That was real sweet. Your writing just keeps getting better and better!! Keep up the good work.
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