more often than not
the evil ones fought
for the most control
of my simple soul
inside of my head
many things are said
all of my thoughts are no longer my own
to dream of killing
when most unwilling
is a perfect sign
that you’ve lost your mind
with such a problem
you can’t talk to them
the voices echo driving you insane
memories of life
hold no answers why
the psychosis thrives
within, deep inside
a small normal wish
of infinite bliss
perhaps the dream could tame the poor beast
Early poetry from James. From the poetry collection Pariah Bound: The Lonesome Poetry.
James Pack 