Without it, I border the shores of insanity.
I cling to it like a newborn to its mother. Without it, I park my emotions on the nearest pier
and sit, wallowing in the thousands of tiny regrets
that devour me on a daily basis.
They have eaten so much that decayed bones
are all that remain of my true self. There is a war that looms ahead, I can sense it.
I stand on one side with my pen ready to bludgeon.
A thousand qualms oppose me, ready to strike. And my freedom to scribe is thrust in the middle,
playing the role of peacemaker. © 2014 by Charles banks, Jr. Writing as Black Angel
Excerpt from Burdens
Published by Spilt Ink Poetry