Poison in Veins

It doesn’t feel right,

not in this moment.
I lie in bed,

gripped tight by fear,

every part of me aches,

there’s no way
 to let go of the pain.

Through my veins flows a dead man’s poison,

Satan’s luxury leaves fingerprints on my soul.
It bleeds me dry in silent motion—

no light, no end, no clear sunrise.

Heart on my sleeve,
I face the scorn,

one-handed critic, sharp and worn.

I could strike back with tender grace,

but depression wins
this hopeless race.

Golden hours, the scent of sunflowers,

the warmth of summer, shining skies.

But I’d rather die 
than stand on your side—

I’m tired of your attitude,
 your plastic smile.

Charms and spells,
my reason bends,

my madness swells,
never ends.

Veins ticking like bombs,

devices seek
signs of astral exitus.

I crossed Northumberland,

where my muses died.

My ink spilled
 into the lake of abandonment.

The pen of hope lost its final spark—
now there’s no time left
 to win the war inside my mind.