There's no-one there
As I cannot let it so
The black gas is contained within
My lungs & heartfelt melancholy.
Solitary purgatory
Imprisoned by the walls
Of my mind
Broken bricks laid on
Foundations of pain.
Purgatory as in it is
not hell. A hell I could
Justify, dwelling in pain
Security in knowing
There's nowhere left to fall.
Feeling small, and confused,
and scared.
What if this is all
Self-inflicted?
Could the massochist that once scourged the flesh now need deeper ways to purify her soul?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem