Voices, Page 2 Of 2 Poem by John Bliven Morin

They are the voices that I hear,
They whisper ever’ day;
The dreams, they come mos’ ever’ night;
I scream at night, they say.

I hear their voices, all of them,
Though they have long been dead;
They whisper things fer me to do,
In secret, in my head.

Bob was electricuted, then
Earl shot hisself, I know,
An’ Billy had a heart attack,
While waitin’ on death row.

But I still hear their voices;
I heah them jest ez plain
As if they was a-standin’ heah,
With the crim’naly insane.

They think that I too am insane,
That’s why I’m in this place;
They don’t believe my voices,
Though I tol’ them to their face.

But now, tonight is special;
For years I’ve saved with hope,
Bits of thread from yar and thar,
Until I wove this rope.

I tied it to the winder bars,
Just like my voices said,
An’ put it roun’ my scrawny neck;
I’m a-standin’ on my bed.

An’ so I say good night to you,
This is my last farewell;
I’m steppin’ off this steely bed,
It’s jest three feet to hell!

Copyright (C) 2004, John Bliven Morin