When I'm in pain, I write,

Some people say hell is underground,
Some say there is no such thing,
Innocent people
Hell is stored in memory pits,
the same pits that we fall into them in a lounly nights without air
When the body shrinks after the brain licks the tongues of fire again and again
And the fire flows through the bones, in the blood
In the pits there is no light, or love or compassion
Just a quiet wish to go to a better place
It’s lucky we have arms and legs to crawl out
to breathe, go to work or study under the sun
Laugh that we came out alive with hope not to fall into them again
Hope is for innocents

That’s why those innocent souls are perforated in the forks of demons
They say that the demons are angels who rebelled and fell to the ground
We are the ones who rebelled and hold forks forged in the pits of fire

They say paradise is in the sky,
Innocent, so innocent,
It is in the air that the lungs pull in as soon as we crawls out toward flat ground and forgets
Holding on to what is called hope, which is a wishful fabric,
Or innocence, or what was left of it
I mean,
Leave me alone and let me breathe