Hate this room,
Hate this life.
Need a final escape,
Emancipation for good.
So the chair that
Warmed your ass,
Supports a final climb
And doesn't hesitate to
Topple this time.
The noose tightens
Around your neck.
Eyeballs pop out,
Tounge sticks between
The teeth and the drool off
Your mouth greeses the
Rusty ribs, so that
The soul can escape
Without any grate.
The legs sway rapidly,
The hands try to conjure
Help for one last time but
The feather like beast-
Your soul, is already on
Its maiden flight-
Only to get stuck in
The cobwebs in the
Upper right corner of
The room.
One prison pushing you
Into another.
The beyond you sought
Now stares at the chair
Uou had toppled-
The ass-less soul misses
Its cozy warmth and
Freedom that was within
The walls-
Freedom works that way.
Freedom is an oxymoron.