five minutes alone
cut to the bone
to the desired level of pain
hopelessly strapped to the suicidal throne.
no kind of crown
worse than a prick of a thorn
outlashing memories
continue to scorn.
some i believe
some play games
some are evil
with good names.
planted are the thoughts
of the blade that shines
more brightly at night
the edge that cuts the string
to my emotional kite.
my grey clouds
always threatens the war
they laugh in the haze
to fuel it even more.

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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