Love, Poetry, Writing

When (part 3). A poem.

When will I be free of this life and all its bitter swill?
Force fed, every grueling meal mixed with bile and contempt,
returned to sender in a spray of misgivings,
a spent force that paints the tile in acrimonious colour.

When will this life leave me be, so I can rest in audacious peace?
When will I sleep and dream of nothing, free from pain and imagination
that only ever led me astray.
When will I break the chains you locked me in, through no fault of your own.

When will I leave this sad and weary shell behind,
wander with spirits, both bottled and ghostly,
and drown my last remaining dregs of hope in failure.

When?

15 thoughts on “When (part 3). A poem.”

      1. You’re welcome, it’s nice to be a part of a group of people who are in the same boat as I am. I love being able to share my stories without feeling judged. I feel secure, and I love seeing everyone’s stories, and knowing what they are going through and feeling.

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