A thought that i was a miracle now crawls through my mind. My body is overlapped like the second hand of new stock.
The ache in my lungs is a thunder that has its own sentiment.
My body has ripped and torn; the thought of suicide is a tempting image that occurs fearfully within my mind.
I roam in despair drenched in clouds of red humid blood that filters the sound of my escape throughout my room along with the pain.
My insides have turned like rusted dented clay and a wire ensues to serve as an electric tear, like clothes in a sale.
The beauty is all parts of the old and the new, yet we would break down — you could break down me.
The only thing that keeps me on my feet is my hope.
My disheartened mind ponders and plans to destroy myself.
My Soul, My Heart — a ruinous and dilapidated Estate.
It is all within my lonely room.
Beyond, beheld by Behemoth and the flood, the time, and the Great Nothing.
:: 03.29.2022 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 