Three poems sits upon the page.
All bound in fear, in hurt, in rage.
Each living proof of years in pain.
All ready to become the flame.
Yet none should burn, and all must stay.
For in their words, lives not a day.
A record of three decades past.
A record of a curse still cast.
Why keep the hurt? Why give them time?
Because they hurt, because they’re mine.
For words are more than ink on page.
Each stroke, a lock, each line, a cage.\
These poems live, so I can breathe.
They give me time, they let me leave.
So let them rest, and let them go.
For what they hold, lives deep below.
They should not be, but must not stay.
And on the page, they stay away.
In written soul, my nightmares lie.
In page, in dust, all demons die.