There exists a hole
Manifested as a state of mind
Where those entrapped cannot escape
And the sun will never shine.
And in this hole there are walls
Made of the smoothest steel
Where getting a grip is hopeless
And wounds refuse to heal.
And in this hole exists two things:
There are taunts telling you to die
And a gravity so strong
It is hopeless to try to fly.
And as they fall there is a plague
Designed to make them numb.
It's fed to you by those outside
To make you feel annoying and dumb.
And the victim always has a wish
To eventually splat at the bottom.
But, you see, there is a catch--
There's no way to resolve the problem.
So they fall, they descend, they suffer
For what feels like an eternity.
And I've tried, oh I've tried, to tell this tale
To others, for the hole is plaguing me.
YOU ARE READING
Stygian. Stagnant. Solitary.
PoetryDarkness. Stillness. Loneliness. Three hells, amassed within the contents of a human skull to torture the mind. Artistically speaking, they are the kerosene that keeps the fire of poetry alive. Consciously, they're traumatically destructive.
