Solitude

365 Days of Creativity

day thirty four

Solitude

The thoughts I hear are not my own.

They speak of pain and twisted bone.

A memory of false risque's

echoed lives

and made up days.

I can't recall this life I've lived

Is it true or it is myth?

The voice whispers,

tells me to cry,

urges me to rot and die.

I can't give in,

words of my mind.

That place is dark,

and I am blind.

Though deaf does not ail me the most,

the sounds it brings, lips of a ghost

These notes are those, bid me ill will

they want only, to make me still.

Alone is when the spider sings,

spinning rhymes and sticky things.

Alone is when I flay my soul,

razor blade my self control.

Escape does not come cheap or free,

though you may want it desperately.

The cost of leaving your own thoughts

will leave you broken,

half distraught.

Abandon hope of getting peace,

when demons visit in your sleep.