Found among,
Hidden in the dark corner,
No spotlight, nothing,
Just darkness.

The fog of mind, it
Manipulates itself
Into good thoughts,
Which spring evil.

A possession;
Cold touch of shrill air hung at
The throat. It catches itself
On something

Something different, something
Unimaginable.
It’s a form of torture, knowing
Wrong but the persistence succumbs just.

A disease, thought to be ridden
Only to come back in waves
Sweeping mankind off his feet
drowning him in the rivers like kittens.

It’s overwhelming,
Unimaginable,
A form of torture on
And on and on. It’s repetitive.

Just break the cycle,
But on and on it is drone that
Hurt fuels the mind to project something,
A fabrication pigment of the heart

Vitalities for desire and love. And on
And on it’s incessantly on my tail
Chomping down to be thrown aside.
It’s unclear
If it’s the fire
Or the water that
Is succumbed to, but either path,
It’s obvious that it’s just hurt.

Hurt and injured.
Sent to isolation from society
from the heart, a small child, who
didn’t get what she wanted,

And the mind, who left her
To suffer
Because he wanted to do
What was best for her.