I collapse on a bed of needles.

Ants of fire crawl into me, encasing my body

Frozen in agony,

I feel millions of legs pinching my insides

I am not strong; instead I am frail and scrawny.

 

I present to you, my pain.

I'm the one without a real voice,

all the words I do speak are in vain.

Everything I am is useless.

My heart as well, for do u not remember?

The ants have stolen all of my scarlet flowing life.

These words are my dying breath

All of my writing is,

because I open up and I shed my touch

onto this canvas covered with possibilities.

I do not know who to be,

what to do,

how to live,

and what is living.

 

So I write yearning to feel.

But then they consume me, critters, darkness, evil, pain, they're all the same.

I'm dying, no way to heal,

no one to blame.

I cause my own misery.

But then something occurs,

something magical,

my sight becomes a blur.

As I carve out the last letter and set my pencil down, everything is back again.

No demons gnawing at my flesh, no blood or tears,

I'm still here.

My words are too, but still no one hears.

But that’s ok, because the words are for myself.

 

It cures me

No longer do I want to be what I shouldn’t be.

So I go on and keep hoping.

At least until the darkness finds me again, it doesn't stop,

something will happen again, that’s the price of living.

Devils will sneak up at night and jump on my dreams until it goes pop.

Then the words and voices call me back,

they know I need comfort, they know me.

Even more than I know myself.

So I wonder If I should surrender.

 

With ink stokes covering my skin

With spindles of sentences intertwined in my locks

With my hand itching to create the next page

And with a hesitant grin

I realize, I was always in their cage.