I need to hold your hand

when the pain hits, when

it comes in waves I need

you to mop my brow and tell me

that it will soon subside,

that it will eventually release

me from its iron grip and the clench

of anguish, the fascist dictator rising up

and telling me that the pain

will set me free, it will consume me

but it is for my own good;

I want nothing more

than to pull the trigger on that

son of a bitch, to make it disappear

into the depth of time,

however it has already started to tattoo

a number on my arm

beginning with bar code black

and binary zeros and ones…

hold my hand, tell me it will be alright,

that in the end I will beat the pain

and the anti democratic yell

of devotion as I scream

and scream into my pillow.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016