A chokehold grip across my throat
Permits the breath of the light to enter me
So the darkness slips down as a poisonous ink
Consuming until my breath burns dead
Oh the temptation and desire to slip away
But suicide isn't in my repertoire, I'm afraid
The chills of despair slipping down my throat
The ink of denial clogging my breaths
Drink down the poison, the black silk of death
Let the drowsiness consume all that left me gleaming
Let the tears of hopelessness wash away happiness
Because I swear, there's nothing more deadly
I'll hide behind the things that conceal my eyes
Let the music drown out the things that degrade me
Dream of the haunted, lurking creatures
Ready to steal my light for their amusement
My favorite part of this poem is the vagueness. "IT", as referred to in the title, seems to be anything that perplexes the psyche causes it to shrivel and concede. I really like the metaphor of the ink. It starts suffocating you, dripping down your throat, then giving up and just swallowing because it's the easiest thing to do. This poem, to me, is about psychological oppression, and the hopelessness of resistance that causes all inner crumbling. Great piece!
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