when i arose
like a plot twist in prose
i found my head in a box
with jagged rocks and those
cuts ran like rivers.
yet i didn't care to find the key
i hadn't known if there was a key
to unlock the door at the end
of the hallway
and there was no way out.
hope,
like a noose, was neither thick
enough nor long enough
to decorate my neck
in the void of space.
eyes bled as i looked upon the
sun
who's face looked upon me,
i failed him, and he wasn't about
to bail me out again.
and again
i rest my case-head on the chopping block, the breath
i taste, is not my own but those
chopped before.
in a world where pennies are scraped from our fabricated pockets to bury the dead, and they are young.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem