Same Old Hell

Same Old Hell Back in the same old hell- Back with the same old dwell. A palace stuck in time, A house without a rhyme. The devil creeps ever close- and he stabs me, so he knows- how close I am to Death indeed, and no matter how my poems plead- he likes to sit and watch me bleed. Bleed ink and dust and my old spirit; growing lesser by the minute. I escaped this house and dwell- the stories I could ever tell do haunt my head and chest and heart- bleeding through the stain of art. Where once was tears and fears and sears- into my soul and stories told- now is barren and empty and hollow filled with nothing but the sorrow. And now even I must be bold, because the stories must be told. Of fear and pain and haunting Death- do cometh now and seeks his rest. Inside my brain and mind and soul, I play my part and sign my role away to Death and his old tricks and watch the hours slowly tick.