By Ian Copestick

As I walk there’s a pleasant, green landscape
full of young flowers, and trees so old.
But it doesn’t encapsulate
the colours in my soul.

There are dark, deep blues, purples and blacks
Around the edges a crimson rage.
Even now, I have to hold some of it back,
or it would set fire to this page.

When I was young, I thought I
would calm down.
Mellow out with age.
As I get older my face is lined from my frown,
my soul is still locked in a cage.

The cage of life, from which you can’t escape
until you face your death
I try to tunnel out, I dig and I scrape.
I will until it’s my last breath.

I’ll keep digging, I’ll scream and shout
and I’ll keep on and on, keep trying.
But I know that I will never make it out
until the day I’m dying.

 

Ian Lewis Copestick is a writer from Stoke on Trent England.
He has published 49 poems in 10 different e-zines including Anti-Heroin Chic, Outlaw Poetry, The Rye Whiskey Review, Medusa’s Kitchen, Synchronized Chaos, Under The Bleachers, Horror Sleaze Trash, and more.

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