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.




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

I see them.


It’s hell in here.

Severed here;

I battle with a heavy scare.