Till the Sun tries to Shine again
by Angela Braru, Regular Contributor

This is a prison house
That breathes fire through its nose.
This is an unreal punishmen
For being human, for being alive.
This is an empty room,
Full of my screeching thoughts
Like un-bitten nails against the wall.
This is a drill of self harm
With no lethal weapons, just thoughts.
And this is a black cage
A house to everything that isn’t fine.
There’s a plastic bag on my face
And breathing feels herculean.
And my screams have been muted
So long, so long.
It’s a chuffing train
Cigarette smoke: the clouds over my head
And I get no high, no I don’t.
I get low and low and low
And lower than the heap of crap
That was buried sixty feet under.
Dead flower petals remain scattered
So do my thoughts
And I’m alone with them
Till the sun tries to shine again.
When will it though?