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  • Writer's pictureIdiotTheWise

Hung On My Heart

The devious feature Inside my head

Mischievous tapping on the walls

The little creature calls

Filling my soul with fear and dread

He asks me scary questions

And presents me with daunting suggestions

Things I wish I never had heard

Things that never should have been said

I trusted the creeping crawling fiend

In the night we did convene

When I was lonely and afraid

The things he did vile obscene

It was then he began to offer me blades

The shade of dark red helps me release

The stinging throb brings a stinging peace

The beautiful lines etched like art

The grim painting hung on my heart



Ah, it never goes away.

Insomnia poems are never happy poems.

I'm hardly a poet though so it doesn't matter.

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