That Feeling Inside

That feeling inside,
deep in the pit,
the one to make me nauseous,
that makes me physically sick,
the brush-by move,
the perversion of circumstance,
the cowardly protection
of the self-destructive romance,
the wooing on an inner
illness to come outward
to further perpetuate
the attention-screaming coward,
the tumor grows further,
the cancer spreading quicker
with a shield to protect it
that gets continually thicker.
The death sentence calls,
the time for execution now,
never knowing what hit me,
the death toll clear and loud.

Silhouette

The glare from my glasses
stare back at me
with disappointment from
what only they can see.
A man in the shadows
pushing the pusher to light
while being too much of
a coward to fight,
the silhouette of
the potential that used to be
outlining a hollowness
that's worn so blatantly,
moments of bravery
sporadically come
only to be chased
back to where they came from.
The vicious cycle
repetitive to death
won't allow hope
to take its single breath
but instead stomps on
the throat of the weak
until the life is out
of the spirit too meek.