Cyanide

Hotel bedrooms remind me of dirty white
lies I was fed with at the hospital, by the dirty,
dark and twisty doctors; they think they’re 
unblemished with their sordid greed to cut
my mind apart. I’d convulse at their rotten
demons, who reach out their arms through
their eyes, and those fingers are Satan’s 
spears, telling me of the lava which chokes
insensate beings like the patient next to my 
bed- he has no demons, for he is one. I have
to run away before they get to me, but I’ve
been manacled to the bedrest. Mediocrity 
consumes these sterile walls and the hostages
became meticulous terrorists with knifes instead
of rifles; I did chuckle at the irony of it all,
at the very end. I wasn’t Schizophrenic, just
paranoid of the eyes watching me, for I held
a grenade in my hands now, and cyanide
pills for teeth- these things just happen,
these are those things that just happen. 

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