It's called imploding

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It’s almost comical
From an outsider’s view
But here, inside,
I’m suffocating

Kiss me on my sickened brow,
Your lips planted in darkness
Seeds of doubt on my forehead
Burrowing into my mind
You close the door, snipping ties
I’ll lay awake alone this time

You tell me that I’ll be alright
I’m falling but you’ll hold me here
In hellish half-day limbo lands
As the slits of light close in
You weather the elements gallantly
And I’m dying deep within

I can hear them whisper
Lying with me in moist prison
Chilled, I shiver glass to glass
I tell them nobody understands
You say that you’ll come and rescue me
As you sit outside with grains of sand

Outside, I’m sure it’s amusing
But the terror’s trapped inside
I doubt you’ll hear me scratch the door
As you sing your childlike lullabies
I admit, I cannot criticize
You tried to save me countless times
In the fault of yours and mine,
You still were blinded to this suicide

The soul is suffocating from the inside
Carpe Diem.




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Points 890
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This one didn't emotionally connect to me as well as some of your pervious work. Technically, it's very well-done, but there's something missing just below the surface. I know that's no help whatsoever, so I'll say this: I can tell there was emotion behind it, but the way you presented it was not the best. I usually don't like second-person writing, so that may contribute to it.

Brian
"Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others."
-Virginia Woolf




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Points 890
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The imagery and word choice is incredible with the exception of the last stanza and line, which dragged the poem down a little bit. The content is a bit stale, but because you expressed ii in such a beautiful way, you slide. You have a gift for pairing words together, e.g. "sickened brow", "moist prison". I also love the line "In hellish half-day limbo lands " uytlzing double-alliteration. If you excised the weaker parts of this poem, it would be grand. Truly. Excellent.



We do have funerals for the living. They're called birthday parties.
— Jill Biden (fictitiously), Hope Never Dies