Roughly scratching the surface --

not barely, but fiercely --

clawing for dear life.

Without thought of escaping

but hopes of ventilating the humidity

collecting and clouding,

choking and clogging…

smothering me.

Only to be met with the hindrance --

barricading burden --

of penetrating the insulation you’ve

internally surrounded your fortress with.

What kind of hell is this,

that makes me beg for freedom and mercy

but concurrently incites me to

never want to leave home?

My heart is hidden within these walls of torture

vitally supplying this sacred monument,

while the abyss in my bosom whistly drips

like a silver faucet on a winter’s night.

Creatively composing comfort

as my soul wears away,

the amenity of your energy

negates the vanity of the pain.


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