It’s inside me, benevolence.
Behind aged bars, in a prison cell of my methodical design.
Hope, love and humane concern in a locked cage while the world burns.
I am my own malicious jailer.
The warden of woe.
Harsh consequences, under the self-imposed draconian rule.
Set ablaze my soul,
I don’t want it anymore.
So many wasted words spoken.
Now my mind has collapsed inwards with a medicated intrusion.
It is a little broken.
For the truth of this poet's life, is I have over one persona and recollection of none.
I am a soul hoarder, diagnosed with
Dissociative identity disorder
I am them; they are I
This is my truth.
Stuart isalittlebroken Johns