My soul is rent with turmoil, of which I can only whisper
No matter how I try to think of you, my one, my love
My body screams at me, a silent scream in the dark of my dank and gloomy thoughts
The screams permeate through all other thoughts and feelings that attempt to overthrow them
Until all that is left in the gaping vastness of my consciousness is a steady stream of anguished cries
The screams are coming from deep within the recesses of my being
Release, the screams cry, it is release I want and release I must have
If only I were allowed to come forth and escape from this dungeon
I could expel from you all the pain and torment that holds you hostage from all other experience
I have sought to overcome this soul-scarring turmoil with perseverance and strength of will
But my adversary has proven to be too strong for me, a mortal
The God of creation has failed to equip me with the ability to vanquish this intangible foe
Abandoned by my creator, I begin to succumb to the pain that threatens the very fiber of my being
I feel my strength and my very will being tested as never before
Slowly I feel the resistance lessen, as a gate attacked with a battering ram
My supporting fibers are splintered and but one or two more blows will leave me broken
I finally look up and curse the God who left me defenseless against this wretchedness
I have lost the battle against the feces pushing against my sphincter so I must go sit on the toilet in defeat
I am shamed, but in my shame I have also found a calming sense of Release, nursing my soul back from the dead
Damn, that was deep. I was wrong about poetry. I guess writing something in a poem does make you more of an intellectual. I stand corrected.
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