why must every moment be tainted with the bittersweet,
the proverbial rug pulled from underneath your feet,
just when you start to fall free,

a darkness, this curtained sheet,
a blackness that looms until you claim defeat,
what are the monsters lurking beneath?
Death will not be short and quick, and not

quite neat.

Madness is a friend and the foe,
a lion in sheep's clothing,
a symbolic form of loathing,
for everything and every one you used to want

and why suddenly,
do words seem weak,

when you are the gun and I am the
bullet?

when you cast me away in to some lost
corner, where no one who would seek,
will find?

Or perhaps it's backwards, we need
the role reversed, you are the bullet cast away

and I am the one who seeks,
the tiny animal who begs

at your feet.