My little piece of hell

Bio

 

I am a 36 year old mother of two. I am passionate about not just art but creating; by that I mean being able to create something from start to finish, whether it’s a poem, painting, or even cooking a meal from scratch. There’s just something about doing it that gives me a sense of accomplishment and purpose. I grew up in a Manitoba community about 800km north of Winnipeg where we didn’t have all the amenities places like Winnipeg had to offer but I made do with playing ringette for many years and spending an enormous amount of time being a band geek and playing fbd bassoon.

 

Life is grim where I’ve been,
I’m haunted by echoes and shrills.

Though time has passed this feeling lasts
and my mind perpetually overfills.

Foolishly I believed, because I’m so naive,
Exactly what was intended to be instilled.

But no matter what I tried, I found no peace inside,
And that void in me couldn’t be filled.

Now I seek advice, that is clear and concise,
I ask, how do I live with the guilt?

Because in a life so vicious, few find forgiveness,
And it’s usually forced and willed.

So here i dwell, because there’s no peace in hell.
And my mind has become weak and ill.

This life is cold, I’m getting old,
But I can’t seem to walk away.

I don’t belong, with all the headstrong,
When with every thought begins decay.

So many highs, keep stealing so many lives,
But I guess that happens every day.

Death is close, as it waits yet another overdose,
And it gleams at any bit of dismay.

Stalking minds with holes, broken hearts and souls,
That’s it’s favourite kind of prey.

So, I’m trying to sell, my little piece of hell,
Before I become just another cliche.

But until it’s sold, or my mind explodes,
In this hell i’m forced to stay.

This life it hurts and though it could be worse,
It still gets lonely out here at night.

It never ends, the cunning ways to condescend.
And the need to always be right.

Still, I remain arbitrary, even with the burdens I carry,
Only because I’m too weak for another fight.

Those that I trust have all become corrupt,
And are happily drowning in spite.

This life is ruthless and in it I’m useless,
But it’s always too late in hindsight.

Like fury I fell, deep into this dire hell,
Where my existence seems to be an oversight.

For my home I’m aching, my only hope now is escaping,
But from what I’m told, hell does not extradite.

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