Vernacularism

Peeking out the window I long to escape Myself A prisoner restrained within the dampened walls of paranoia I covet the need to be free- From myself I cannot live in this world But I refuse to kill myself Or better yet let you kill me Peeking out the window Anyone who would be watching me Would see nothing They would only see a dead soul Whose hand moves atop the paper Tis I or the wind Who occasionally turn the page I hear For I am not deaf, I see For I am not blind, I said it once I don’t repeat I care not I simply do not care Hiding from the hunters the hunters of death I feel them reach for me with they’re skeletal hands they reach for me cherishing the blood of a poet The deafening noise, Tis but the sound of silence, Darkness falls with not a cloud in sight No moisture is near Yet I fear I will drown It’s the pen I use it’s the ink that pours through From beneath a withered hand and bled onto paper What was once mundane quickly turns sinister A fiend within my soul; a soul within a monster Tis consoled and construed into a poet’s lullaby…

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