Hell/Heaven

 

Maybe this is hell.

Screaming

into the void

every single day.

Feeling annoyed

at bleeding

paper-cut hands

that grip tightly

around my neck.

My own hands.

The internal conflict.

 

Maybe this is hell.

The words I speak,

creak,

in withered agony,

from torn throat,

worn and soaked

in salt water.

Stinging.

Screaming

not singing.

 

Maybe this is hell.

Locked in my shell,

a mental prison cell,

where no one hears

the screeching wails,

no one feels

the pulled nails.

The wind 

no longer

in my sails.

 

Or maybe

this is heaven,

The things we take for granted,

the beauty enchanted.

The wonder,

that makes us ponder

and contemplate everything.

The birds that sing,

the joy that life can bring.

The love that comes

when you are

walking that wobbly tightrope

and are all out of hope.

 

 

 

Thanks for reading

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Peace, Love and Poetry 

 

Kyle