These words you read as poetry
Is language for the dead
A graveyard full of epitaphs
I keep inside my head

Spilling out like blood
Onto these pixelated pages
Heartbreak forming words
Creating keys to unlock cages

Bound to every word I write
as knives cut into skin
Severing the ties that bind
The pain we feel within

Words you see as metaphors
So twisted by design
The consequence of open doors
Inside a troubled mind

Appearing quite unconsciously
In everything I write
While unbeknownst to me
They often bring the truth to life

This thing I do as therapy
Or simply for the fame
Is just a poor excuse for me
To reinvent my name

But when the words are counted
And the last ink has been spilled
The only thing I’ll have to show
Is all the time I killed

Just dark interpretations
Of the present life, I live
Whom I am still loving
And the souls I can’t forgive

Letters to some ghosts
That I keep raising from the dead
Words of longing for someone
Who used to share my bed

TM DiSarro

©2020 TM DiSarro / MindScapes Publishing



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