A prisoner of myself, mind tormented by verse,
no sleep for this lively soul.
As I long here in the shadows for a pen,
writhing and sweating, feeling trapped and all alone,
this darkness becomes my only friend,
for I am a convict of my poetry.
Whipped and beaten by the words i write,
like internal bleeding, leaking from this darkness,
these works do come, each ripping apart my mind, torturing my thoughts,
for I am a convict of my poetry.
This power I posess, to strike people with fear,
fear of what I write, what I say,
believe me, it scares myself more than does you.
I don't know why I write these things, or why I even write,
it makes no sense but people like it, I feel so helpless in the night.
I can't sleep if I have ideas, my writing never lingers far,
I can't escape, I'm a slave to these ways,
for I am a convict of my poetry.
