deepundergroundpoetry.com

Mental

Schizophrenic magic markers moments
draw out mental images
of your face contorted
in Rorschach daydreams.

All the while I cry for you
surrounded by back alley devils
lounging on their dirty mattresses
in crisp white coats.

Their twisted grins laughing
gloved hands restraining �
prodding, poking, prick
with their hypodermic damnation.

The more I fight
I can feel their sinner sleep creep
deep into my skin
a piece of me dies every fucking time
I scream but you�ll never come.

Sinking further into this bed of lies
a zombie state takeover
too hard not to succumb to.

I wonder how I will survive
institutionalized purgatory
searching nightmares for absolution
I fear is too late in coming.

Will I transcend if I continue to wait
for the sanctuary buried in your hands.