They

They—ZenPens

They spoke
They called
They clawed and they fought
“let us out of here”
“Do what we want”
They scrapped at the walls
They screamed from the shadows
‘‘we want out’’

In this little room
By the corner he sat
Surrounded and in pain
His eyes closed
Hands over his ears
He tried.
He really tried
But they wouldn’t leave him alone.

Prodding at his side
They almost felt real
Yet they weren’t
Hands grabbed his throat
But wait,
They were his
His own hands, squeezing tight.

Death.
That was all he wished for in that moment
Death, let it end
Let everything end
‘I want to go home’
‘make it stop and just take me home.’

In the little room
By himself he sat
Dressed in all black
Hoodie and jean
Drenched in his own sweat
Dripping down his chin

In the little room he sat
But they sat there with him.

Why not share?

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