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