Faces

Blurred my eyes,

Choked at my throat,

And it taught me what it felt like to be without feet.

I swam, frantically for the will,

whether mine or his, the little gift of terrible thrill.

Whatever it was, oozing crimson liquid , gave me chills;

madness, always, just always,

threatened my rib.

Where to me was a cage,

comforting my lonely, sweet yet, solitary.

To help my feet walk out of it,

all the guns usually aimed right in between my forehead,

only a few times it was adjusted,

to point slightly away from the frontal lobe, in case of hope.

Madness, more than a burn across my forehead,

A fever that passes with a cool aid,

was my eyes,

blurred by heartbreaks but bored,

since it is often the same face.