How can I make myself
Into someone's strongest bridge
When I can't be swayed
To look past the chasm's edge?
How can I become
Some stairs for them to climb
When I can't show myself
This brick wall is just a hedge?
How dare I transform into
A ship for the submerged
When I'm afraid to test
The water of puddles?
Why should I self-sacrifice
In a hundred discrete forms
When they watch me decay
Into just a muddle?
YOU ARE READING
Stygian. Stagnant. Solitary.
PoetryDarkness. Stillness. Loneliness. Three hells, amassed within the contents of a human skull to torture the mind. Artistically speaking, they are the kerosene that keeps the fire of poetry alive. Consciously, they're traumatically destructive.
