If you opened me up
maybe with a zip or a crow bar
it is my belief inside I would be
eighty percent water from the sea
and twenty percent ghosts
who upon being freed
would walk away and let me be
so when I look longingly
at your scalpel or your blade
it is not because I wish to meet my maker
not yet anyway
but the irresistible urge to be freed
of these ghosts who pinch and knead
even if you fitted a zip dear sir
or inserted a pipe to let the smoke pour
anything would be preferable to this canker
an ulcer of lament forming malcontent
they weigh a lot for emotions past tense
no matter how hard I try they gain the upper hand
that’s what happens when your body is a grave yard
for souls who ripped you apart
you carry your history like a series of scars
nobody can see, they think you’re doing well
underneath your sequins it’s a bloody hell
sometimes I wish you could see how I feel
the cavernous maw of the unhealed
they don’t let go of my throat with their squeeze
when people jump I’m not surprised
who can live with such unease?
the ghosts inside us, reminding we’re never free
until we vanquish their poison
so give me some mercy
let them out
I would like to fly
but I have lost the ability to float