Who does she think she is?

She knocks on the door;
       she wants to come in.

I say, “It’s unlocked.”
There’s silence again.

She makes my lids drop;
       she teases me so.

Oh, how I’m aroused,
       I sigh.

                  She knows.
She whispers to me,
       “I’ve called you by name.”
Then laughs in my ear.
       “Don’t you hear me dear?”

My eyes are burning;
       I want to let go.
Madness is churning,
       rattling me so.

“Silly little child,”
       she says in a trill voice.
“Isn’t it time?”

“Time,”
       I tell her,
“is the enemy beast.
So much of it goes by
       without reprieve,
I’m aghast.” 

                “I know.”
She smiles back;
       her grin has worn thin.
“With arms wide open,
       I’ve invited you in.”

                  “That’s such a lie!”
Now I’m mad. I’ve had it.
She’s really whacked.

Energized once more,
       she knocks on my door.

The Element of Pain

Pain
Its poison weaves into one’s very fibers
wrapping, pinching, pulling every which way
sending out roots; those life giving veins
filled with the insulin of established authority

An all-consuming fire
it burns through the bone and into the marrow

Which is worse:
        · The physical, immobilizing form that takes one’s breath away?
        -or-
        · The mentally tormenting configuration that makes it hard to breath?

Either one will drive a mind wild
The world’s tools cannot always tame
the beast’s tongues of repression
as they lick and spew their venomous flames

The waiting game, once consumption takes root
is its own form of torture -
       (Thoughts bridge between erasing the ache
        and holding together until deliverance is made)

What about when these two join forces?
When physical and mental combine?
       · Will a bridge be able to hold their weight?
       · Will madness ensue; can thoughts flow at all?
       · Will the only thought be to hope that the poison works fast
          so the victim’s redemption can lead to a quick death?

Living in hell, this unbearable hell
makes an irrational fool of ‘em all
When the only thought one can form in this storm
is this torment must stop, and by any means mortal
Then the battle is set for defeat and the soul has sold itself out
       (An ebbing tide, it’s a thief in the night; so slowly it does erode.
        Will the soul be hollow before time runs out?)

Pain: man’s form of torture and suffering; degrees of distress are beside
         the point. Survival's dependant upon one’s faculty function; just
         how much can one man endure?

His Demons, Her Daily Nightmare

So full of life; at the seams, she’s bursting
Yet the daily grind of mental torment
Kills felicitous tone, leaves her thirsting

No escape from sulfuric lake of ruin
Yet she treads while choking acrid poison
Willing a new dawn under the paled moon

Low. So low, no grasping breaks the traction
Yet alone, wounded, abandoned, she waits
Until her salvation’s moved toward action

Glow turns ember; near exanimate’s door
Yet keeps on breathing, while longing to stop
Still, without calm; can no longer ignore

She never dreamed of a life within his nightmares