Peeling skin to present my soul,
Ripping away broken limbs,
I've accepted the toll
to confess my sins. 

Keeping occupied
with endless stacks of tasks,
distress has diffused and died. 
When the stacks begin to unmask,
I take day-long strolls to hide
from the dwelling red flask. 

Hooking on rims of glass,
the full-body craves senses. 
I appease it as to bypass
the Last Supper's terse tension. Sleeping in Sunday class,

retch the Lord's mention.

Then submerge in baths
hotter than the depths of hell.
Waters seethe as Lucifer's wrath
slowly sinks and duly dwells
into the aftermath
of spilt scarlet cells. 

Seeking pain relief,
I find poison-filled pills. 
So I ignite the bay leaf
and sully Saint Peter's last will
by congesting on the grief
of swallowing Mudville. 

Spilling pens drown demons
who thrive on flaunting floral
crowns that bloom in changing seasons.
Yet I choke on worn laurels
as hubristic reasons
to grow immortal.

I offer my heart
and refuse wary hell,
for you formed my inward parts
and my soul knows it very well.

This poem is about: 
My community
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741