Challenge
Challenge of the Month XXXIX
Write a short poem about your own private Hell. The tortured who reigns gets 100 big ones. Winner will be picked by Prose. Go.
Spotlight
Drawing from the well that has none,
I mount my post before them, undone.
While in position, the room goes still,
Like vultures, poised to seal their kill.
My heart, with its cathartic song and dance
Sounds, my voice without a chance.
As hollowed breaths eclipse my phrases,
My skin percolates, scarlets, and blazes.
And as each syllable fumbles its way,
My limbs churn just to stand, to stay.
Here I am before the crowd,
Taming courage to say aloud.
Here I am before you,
Simply to tell but afraid to.
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