My mind
Is a terrible place
Where I never
Learn
Without feeling

What masked
And obscure
Knowledge
Makes tomorrow
Seem unsure

Though I wrestle
Death on page
While this inkwell
Stains
With anguish

Each sentence
Raw and beating
For the heart
That’s bound
To pause

And speak
At slowing pace
Of a lost
Yet telling
Rhythm

Bleeding voice
From passion
When the truth
Has fallen
Black

Among bones
And precious filth
Housing words
In tombs
Transparent

Which unearth
My final grievance
As a man
Whose phrase
Is dirt

Beneath
Such rotten dreams
That demand
I argue
Freely

Out of grounds
Below
Deep soil
Which imprisons
Who I think

Are the fears
And nervous dreams
I can dig
In hells
Unworthy

Where escaping
Empty pleasures
Is the lie
I long
To touch

Repeating
Hurt as weak
But revealing
God
As pressure

Like a stone
Atop my body
Weighing down
This time
I seek –

Wishes
Not fulfilled
By the choice
We make
If trying,

Cause the answer
Isn’t living

For perhaps
It’s somewhere
Else.

– J. Pigno