It’s time I do
Confess
How confined
My thoughts
Remain

To the point
Where words tell
Little
Like syllables
Strung like stones

Around
This neck
Submerged
Beneath what life
Still struggles

Below
Such depths
Apparent
To swallow waves
In gulps

While losing air
So fast
There is no
Chance
For breathing

Beyond
Some uttered
Finish
Of a protest
Made from sound

Or death
Considered fair
When noise
Has zero
Meaning

As purpose
Loses semblance
Through phrases
Said
Too much

Which speak
One final claim
Convinced
No point
Is proven

Since endings
Writing volumes
Exceed
Those broken
Means

Defeating
Poems lost
Before
My pen
Can finish

The dream
I never started
Staying idle
All these
Years

Becoming
Numb as hands
Whose fingers
Long
For movement

As this silence
Begs for mercy
Now demanding
I stay
Heard

If admitting
True defeat
At the hands
Of staunch
Expression

Leading men
So fucking desperate
Down her pathways
Laced
With guilt

By this muse
Who always hurts
Just enough
To foster
Vision

Using tension
As that leverage
Having madness
Be my
Noose

Above wishes
Unfulfilled
Like such tight
And winded
Cable

Swinging heavy
Over mornings
Lacking courage
To stand
Tall

Knowing day
Resembles pain
Within verse
So damn
Inspired

Growing lethal
Before stealing
What small hope
I may have
Left.

– J. Pigno