Too Many Holes

Take every feeling that fights

its way in, capture it, lock it up

inside a wooden box with a skeleton

key.  Everything I feel is my enemy.

 

The soldiers of sadness of fear of regret,

they fire their weapons of emotion if

they get too close, leaving me with holes

clear through.  Every shot means

one more piece of me on the ground.

 

I have no weapon, so I arrest them as soon

as they appear.  There’s a tiny prison box

for each, so sadness never speaks to hope,

and guilt will never hear from pride.

 

Boxes line my walls, reverberating

cries, but I stand guard, in case more feeling

come by, for I already have too many

holes and too many skeleton keys. 

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