passion

this morning i woke up
my consciousness fragmented
shaking away the dream
or was it a nightmare
you again,
watching from afar

watching me burn
in the hell of my own making
my chest tightens
i can’t breath
but i refuse your help
as my jaw cracks
under the weight

of my own expectations
blinded by self-accolades
who i am
who i should be

sometimes i am surprised
that i am no more than the
clothes i wear
my body disappears
nowhere to be found
i laugh at it
with my invisible mouth
what a joke

even madness has left me
just a pile of clothes
as identity

and you in hell with me
whisper that my time is up

because
my passion for life dried
just like this poem
not preserved
nor passed on to someone else
to taste

to a place worse than hell
of the non-existence of ‘I’
where nothing makes sense
the beginning is the end
and the end is nowhere in sight
loop de loop

in the near present
to have my affairs in order
what affairs, i ask?

while i adorn myself with a mask
perfume it with passion
and strength
for this life
for others

the hell of my own making
is better than what is to come

and
shut my eyes
perfume them with more

until even my tears are awarded for
their strength and passion

now wafting from me to you
as you sigh and smile
letting hope settle
blinded by distraction
and i unpack my bags

take my throne
in the hell of my
own