by Nick Gisburne
The confident, the fortunate, by chance
Know nothing of the wreckage of my mind
The dust on which a thousand demons dance
The desolation destiny designed
Relentless, fretful stamping of the feet
A fear that sense and sanity may burst
Distress to take a step on any street
The certainty that life is cracked and cursed
The skin I scratch, and scrape, and slit, and scar
Despair, in which I sit and scream, alone
My distant, dying dreams, too faint, too far
The silence and the peace I’ve never known
The crush, the crowd, the faces of my fear
The demons who will never disappear
