PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Malignant mass rests in my skull

will it take me over?

Making all my senses dull

will I ever again be sober?

Chained to a bed of alabaster

surgeons smothered in white

my erratic pulse is building faster

will they save me from my plight?

Concoctions slamming through my heart

eyes see naught but black

Ive torn the world Ive built apart

will they give me what I lack?

Theyre trying to fix me a stitch at a time

to make me one of them

I think I prefer hellish climes

to keep following him

the one that promised me liberation

in the midst of madness

so far theres been naught but desolation

a sucking pit of gladness

Hammer. Tongs. Scalpel. Saw.

They delve into my face

breaking open a bleeding maw

removing all but a trace

of what made me quite unique

a gift I cannot give

I hope this poem dont seem too bleak

but Ive died before I could live.