Psych Art (Psychological Torture)
Muted grey
Shades of pain
Blurry sneers
My arms stretched out
Coils freeze on my limbs
Hanging above soulless concrete
Clearly I cannot see
Blood dripping like dew from every surface
Worthless wordless stories
Pressure of knives grinding into my ribs
My lungs stutter die start again
Hope in a feather
Lying in grass under starry sky
Fades to dust and burns away
This wasn't escape
Not when the meadow is walled in
Hope in a small, simple thing
Such nondescript cold power
Hope of no consequences no pressure no pain
Feeling of a feather in a bullet
Flying so fast from its barrel
Hope in this thing set in front of me
I kneel in my cell and stare
I am entranced, transfigured by my shards
Spilled on the hungry ground
Silent empty blank space surrounded by sound
Spewed from blurry sneers
Blood painting shades of pain
My shards form mosaics in muted grey