Deadlines loom,
words awaiting internment.
Confined to coffins
in paper lined tombs.
Tomes that go unviewed.
Confiding their stories to no one,
lost on the echo of a silent moon.
Still deadlines loom.
Letter queues quietly, quizzically, questioning
this vapour fate. Solitary awaits
where dead words lay in state.
Unreal rhythmic funereal songs.
Hymns mournfully sung.
The deadlines seemed so long,
until you reach closer to the end.
Then you can feel them closing in,
like the pages of an empty book
being slammed violently shut.
Put up with it, don't shout or swear.
You are live on air,
the tannoy’s piercingly blare,
slicing the spaces left empty
between the ears.
Those deadlines snake into the depths.
Places built on self-hate and neglect,
poisoned air
with the stench of misguided regret.
Words ripped from every pained grimace,
every strained smile,
when all you wanted was to cry.
There is no rush, to rip them apart.
Take your time unpicking
each shard from your pierced heart.
Those deadlines won't go anywhere.
Self-imposed deadlines haunting.
The moans and groans echo, taunting.
Chains rattle, startling
the sparkling train of thought inside,
disrupting the ride,
leaving them cowering at the trackside.
Your own ghosts marching in time
to the chaotic beat
of your own wretched mind.
Trying to find answers,
when no questions align.
Take each step, with a skip.
Let every emotion drip
like rain over you. Soak in it.
Then laugh when they try to
send you down
those slippery stone steps.
You've walked through hell,
and any depths are nothing
compared to those fire filled pits.
Thanks for reading
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