This is one of those poems you write with everything you have. Its one of the ones you are living, one you know all too well. This is a poem about life, about struggle, about rebellion, about being beaten, about not stopping, about being bound to you past, about breaking those bindings. This is a poem of how I see my life. It feels very...surreal, very grim.

The first block is hopeful, frenzied. Time is scarce, the world has its back turned! Quickly, break the bindings, rip the ties loose, shatter the chains...Free! Still, it is faced away, narcissistic in nature, wrongfully content in its power. There! The sword of rebellion, grasp it firm, high above your head. So high....so much riding on that blow, so much to be gained by felling this monster. But, as it always does, the beast turns its gruesome maw to face you, just as the motion is made to deal its death blow. The sword clatters to the floor as it flings you against the wall, its vile gullet spewing demonic laughter.

Here, we would enter the second chapter. The World has you now, in its grasp so firm. Again and again, its crushed you, the blows feel familiar....god, so familiar. When you finally have lost the fire in your soul, when your very existence flickers likes like a candle in a hurricane, it relents. You would scream at it, demand to be finished, freed in death...But your plea is smothered in more of its filthy laughter, the dreadful tone of it seeming to thicken the air to the point of making your breath catch. Dutifully, it binds you, roughly shackling you back to the wall, its grotesque flesh rough and clammy as it puppets you into your chains. When its done, it stands tall before you, a triumphant sneer on its ugly visage, as it curses you. Words filthier than even it fall from high above, crushing you beneath the weight. It tongue lashes you fiercely, stealing everything but your flesh. Again content in its power, it leaves you there in this dark place, broken and abused, the door closing heavy and decisive behind it.

This puts us in the final section. You lay limp against the wall, held prisoner by these chains. The dark room slowly comes into focus, as your eyes adjust. There are things on the walls, growths, extensions.... You squint at them, seeking them in the darkness. One of them finally comes into focus, and your chin drops, aghast. You recognize it well, this growth...you have an intimate past with it. Horrified, you cast your eyes this way and that, searching amongst the other dim protrusions...and you know them all... They are your failures. Every mistake, every missed opportunity, everything you ever did wrong is here, hung like a vile trophy on the walls of your cell. Your heart beating rampant in your chest, you realize what this is....finally, you understand. You are being held to your past, literally bound to your failures. Mementos of everything you ever botched hang all around you, and you are powerless to escape them. This poem would end as the tears begin to course down your cheeks, as your screams ring out in the cell, guttural and scared, wanting nothing but peace, even through death.

This poem details a darker side of myself, one seldom seen, rarely acknowledged, but wholly existent. This poem is a written journal of my tears, the saga of every nightmare, the story of all my shortcomings. This poem is real, raw, and powerful I think. This poem is me.