This poem goes with a pretty intense picture I drew at 2 in the morning after some pretty intense stuff happened with my family...
Consciously slipping
Sitting on the Pickets
balance perfect
Swinging your Legs
Shoes falling into the fire
And your eyes are open
Letting go of the Handhold
face backwards
Let your little legs slip
Singeing your toes
And your eyes are open
Hanging from the Pickets
hands weak
Dropping an Arm
Kicking from Boils
And your eyes are open
One Finger Left.
Black and Charred.
Sigh and Surrender.
Screams of Burning.
There's a body in the fire
I suppose he tripped.
though his eyes are still open.
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