Poetry 0.2

(Image was found on Google – not mine)


Like an interrogator in a war camp the mind stands as your accuser. Questioning all things done the false answers it had already won.
But it likes the game not the plea.
Feel the choke in the chest. Squeeze the heart. Show the weakness in the blood.
Torture the body don’t leave a mark. Secret agony riddles with no doubts.
Suffer alone with a favourite saying not because it feels right but because no other words come to mind.
“I’m sorry”.
Even when fault has no place to lie. The words fall out.
“I’m sorry”.
Even when the fake sentiment has ran out. The words fall out.
“I’m sorry”.
Circle back repeating nightmares. The words fall out.