Black•Magic

The flare that I once had down at the bottom of the ocean

Sunken by unrealistic ideals and a sea of unpursued dreams

The self help books and guides

Now mean nothing to me but lines of lies

Another indication that I shouldn’t be here

Deep down I know I should have died

By my own hand not the hand of another

No cause for stress panic or investigation

Just a full stop at the end of my sentence

My own mental prison of which I have the key

But it’s buried deep down in the cemetery

The realisation of an indefinite loneliness

It covers my body like a quilt made from nettles

Uncomfortable and irritating

Tears stream from my eyes

So swiftly my patience is removed

Like hairs plucked from the crown of my scalp

But I don’t feel an ounce of royalty

More a servant to my insecurities

A foot maid to my isolation