Your tears are “dramatic”

Your pain is “sinful”

Your sore throat, brutally chained with a stifling necklace is “manipulative”.

And your licit quarrel is labeled “illicit”.

They hasten to bow their inglorious heads,

Only for your crimson eyes to see.

They’re ashamed or so they say,

but concealed behind their eye is a

triumphant-type- blithe.

The sovereign man draws a hierarchy of all ‘em misdeeds,

and permanently erases all the inferior ones

“Just breathe in and breathe out,

Only two more minutes ere your traumas end”, they say.

Those two more minutes,

turn into unstable knees shaking at the last bench for hours.

Hours turn to peculiar weeks,

and weeks turn to impuissant months.

Finally, you reach the period of bootless years,

where you sight em “gods” spitting an adhering amber

on the top of your “puke-colored” file,

inside which lay documents of

nights of hope and tears.

Your magicians call it futile, gray, and ghastly.

And right before they inhume your so-called “fracas”

You hope they remember it.

“Just breathe in and breathe out.

Only two more minutes ere your traumas end” they say.