Sweating Bullets

The poet started out that night with a few simple bars;

Outside his window, the only sound was passing cars.

“Soon they will arrive to torment -

The unseen voices, echoing without relent.

Insults falling in a steady torrent,

Ridicule calling leaving me spent.

To the paper I`ll run and hide,

In it`s leaves I`ll safely abide;

Till the verbal attacks eventually subside,

Within these verses, I must now reside.”

His life and soul, he would gladly return;

If only in doing so, he wouldn`t have to burn.

He tried to smile, all the time, throughout it all;

But the harder he tried, the harder he`d fall.

Keeping the feelings inside each sunlit day;

There they would reside; hidden away.

Each night, voices incessantly insulted him, groups of friends;

Their distant ridicule, which anointed him, knew no ends.  

With only his book to keep him company;

In his solace, he felt, already in purgatory.

He never felt an emptiness, which was so filling.

Slowly, his life`s dullness was becoming thrilling.

A tempest of torment and emotions filled his hollowed mind;

But, an onset of anguish, was the only feeling he could find.

The silence of the night, he had grown to fear;

For in the darkness, the voices became clear.

On this particular evening, after the darkness had set;

Silence was broken, with suicide`s calling, his hearing had met.

Whispering taunts in his sunken ears,

“Do it, you pussy” is all he hears.

Yet, his heart failed to complete the deed;

So, chants continued from the demonic breed.

“You fucking bitch” they, now, repeatedly did yell;

These relentless, restless nights, were his living hell.

 Closing his lids, still hearing their reprise;

And then came the flashes of hate filled eyes.

He stared at them, eyes shut, with a will of steel;

The fear of death, and of violence, he did not feel.

He lay steady and at the ready, to attempt to defeat;

Any demonic or human foe, which he might meet.

With all his might, he attempted to do what is right;

But with violent temptation, he fought a losing fight.

He was tired of being called a fearful coward;

His inert raging energy, had now been powered.

Up from his bed, his body was furiously sprung;

Like a bullet from a recently shot, smoking gun.

His hand grabbed the closest makeshift weapon.

From that night`s battle, he would not run.

A knife and a bat, infuriation - tremors in his hand

To their death, he would send the incessant band.

It was 3:30 am, and he was on the concrete;

No intention, or ideas, of peaceful retreat.

He saw not a shadow of a person in sight,

Met only with the sounds of the dead of night.

So his eyes filled with a flood of tears,

Experiencing - the worst of all his fears.

For all the visions and words the voices said;

Were only the ruminations, and creations in his head.

Composed By: Andrew Drucker