Prison Skin

Quiet somber metronome,

Daunting and haunting the tunnels beneath my skin

Consistently keeping record of the drum beats

That I unnoticeably walk to the rhythm of.

The beat above… below.

Within and without the membrane coating.

The covering so claustrophobically weaved

Perceived as a house for this soul of mine,

A prison house that undermines.

I chisel from the inside,

Like and insect.

Chiseling at the core, so the crown will fall.

But why?

I should then simply crumble upon myself

Upon the hand that chisels.

Should I then relieve such tools from my firm grip

And meander amongst the fools with duller tools?

Who is the part of me to place my self on a pedestal above such fools?

For I am such by different means.

But maybe I’m mistaken,

I chisel at the core so the crown would live no more.

The crown of superiority, so hypocritically disguised

By my blind demise.

Fill the cracks of my chisel axe.

Roam through the tunnels, weaved and claustrophobic.

Like an insect, replenishing myself

Proudly placing myself on a higher pedestal,

Amongst the other powerful fools.