67.

I am nauseous, in a caustic, acoustic comatose.

I am cautious in nausea, walking a fine lined rope of a loner’s hope.

I suppose I cope, with poems that make me choke.

I suppose, I chose to endure this painful experience of depressive stokes.

Burning soul.

Burning soul.

Burning soul.

I paint with a brush that strokes in longing lopes.

I know it so;

I find a rope that will grant me, my only hope…

Of freedom.

I am kneeing, for a freeing feeling from these demons.

I am teething, biting down on streaming’s of potent potential love’s teaming.

Gleaming.

Gleaming.

Gleaming.

Sometimes, you have to suffer to the point of being released in the same cell of demons to defeat them in.

I see them.

Everywhere.

It’s hell in here.

Severed here;

I battle with a heavy scare.