I am my own best friend, 
me and my burning pen. 
Together alone 
through everything 
we have been,
my papermate and I 
find myself, I lose my way,  
I lose myself, I find my way, 
I come back around again 
then square I go, 
alone.

Cut the nose, spite the face, 
I got pride, I got space, 
not a number, not a mistake. 
Slave never 
a sheep black as me 
so black I am the light, 
...

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I shut it down 
when it gets too loud 
and I go back 
underground. 

I feel it like a thud, 
dull but hollow,  
loud and shallow. 
I wallow, I bellow. 
I hope, I hope 
then I damn the hope 
down the hole,

throw the rope. 

I’m afraid, 
afraid of my brain, 
afraid of the rain, 
my pain, 
the words on the page,
the ever growing rage, 
the crushing despair, 
the hate. 

No mo...

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Sometimes I’m here, 
others elsewhere, 
gone, lost in my head, 
a round, a square. 

Underground, 
disappointment frowns. 

At my best always 
when there’s nothing left 
and all I ever do 
is stand on the edge.

©JM.Cole 

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