Midnight Blues

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Still born, thrust into prickly bed, pierced not
by cotton pillow, or soft sheets,
but by the arrows of barbed thoughts
cutting into the flesh of my self-worth
drawing blood
and turning my eyes red
stung by the insects of shame
and pity

Desperate, I heap sand on the fire
of broken dreams, and broken promises
hoping to extinguish the inferno
for tears are not enough
A brief interlude
my mind clears, the smoke disappears
but an ember remains
and so the blaze resumes

Pain cannot help, for pain is dull
worn blunt by the numbness within
my fist tries to knock sense into my head
so does the head of my bed
and members of the tool shed
I stop when I see red

Bleary, weary and looking scary
I wash my face but my eyes wash themselves
“I look normal,” I think to myself, no trace of
lost hope, of
lost friends, of
wasted life, of
wasted breath

Abhijeet Krishnan