Frustration

By Ian McChicken

I'm trapped inside of a cage,

I can't think straight because I'm in an entranced rage.

Thoughts fly by my mind's eye,

I refuse my food, he says," Fine die."

What other choice do I have?

Maybe I should stop yelling, save my voice, and be glad.

I'm just sick and tired of my frustration.

Turn the ice into a wick and fire it so I can feel the sensation.

Maybe I actually have a reason to live.

Take a little something off the top, and the rest I can give.

The rest can go to some kind of organization.

Give it to one of those small and tormented nations.

"I didn't mean to cause anyone here harm."

That's what I say when you hear the ambulance's alarm.

The taste of being left out,

when I want to be heard I have to shout.

Another thing about having myself be heard,

the only way it happens is when I express myself in words.

People realize when you're weak and desperate.

Therefore, they eat your carcass alive, you're still separate.

the sensation of fading to dark while being pierced, by hundreds of knives.

At this time you must all think I've been deranged,

well you're wrong, It's been six months since I've been insane.

This person, that had at one time been holding me,

was now, holding a gun, standing over me.

I was so deceived,

that such a nice person would dare to lie.

That he would, murder me, or at least he was going to try.

No one dares, to stand here by my side.

Frustration, cold, darkness, empty soul, I feel deprived.

All of these words I have said, they are what I feel inside.