Get up and write
You son of a bitch
As if your life
Depends on it
Without fear
Or explanations
But purpose
To cleanse this soul

Venting
Demons held
From lies
And faulty questions
Too stupid
To seem simple
Like the reasons
People break

When voices
Grow insane
But cracks
Are worth exploring
What instants
Feel perpetual
Through circles
Chasing hope

As I search this day
Confused
Seeking prayers
Gone missing
Yet losing faith
To stubbornness
Or excuses
Built on time

Insisting
Choice is real
To conjure grief
So needless
In a fearful state
Unending
Like truths
I can’t ignore

With eyes
Toward endless space
Or the death
Between these margins
Mocking
Monsters waiting
Where hurt
Is an empty line

Between
This senseless phrase
And the need
To keep repeating
Such trauma cut
From impulse
Like statues
Deep in stone

For the worst words
I may claim
Are better
Than saying nothing

Biting tongues
Not gifted
But cursed
With an act of God.

– J. Pigno