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.
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…
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.
I battle with a heavy scare.