The emptiness now becomes my closest friend, To live each day as it passes just as lonely as the last, The inside is crying hidden suddenly by the smile, To feel acceptance is to open up to more pain and denial, Love like a rain cloud only there long enough, To make the desert yearn for almost just enough, Growing close to loosing hope all is becoming dark, The world easily shows hate without a small remark, To feel accepted and alive grows slowly thin, Another day ending with no promise or feeling from within, The child never sees it coming unaware of its strength, Adults love die along with the child's will to survive, False disguise of hope in our world nears to the end, Only to reveal that disappointment becomes our closest friend.
Did you enjoy my pain? Was it fun to watch me fall? You where the reason why I became this way Everyday, my life is tormented by nightmares, Nightmares that are my reality Do you feel nothing for what you have done? Have you ever thought how your actions might affect others? While I trusted you, you plotted my demise You told me you cared for me, but it was all a lie I shouldn't have trusted your sweet lies Was it your plan to destroy my soul? What was your purpose for making me suffer? I feel helpless in this dark abyss that you have created As the years past by, it grows bigger Being nurtured by my growing sorrow..
NEXT: Today I look at my life and wonder. Is life worth all this pain I have been through?
My whole being has been twisted by your selfishness My understanding of life is so mush different than others.. What they see as torment, I see as pleasure....
I use to wish for my salvation But now I only wish to feel my own suffering For I have grown to love the feeling of torment I love to see the scars on my skin And feel the scars on my soul
If only you knew the real me You would cry and pity me... But I wish you never to know.. For I still cling to that hope Of you becoming the person you once were..
Is there an answer in those blank pages, And wonder what I am going to write,
Because the words need to flow,
I just need to express how I feel,
And get my point across,
Without being abusive or too sentimental. I just need the words to flow from the pen to the paper,
I stare at the blank page, And I need to get it right. I don't want cliches or abusive words: And not leave a word unspoken, as rhyme follows rhyme,
And emotions and descriptions magically flow, Creating colours onto a literary canvas, That blend together and melt into a picture of love, Or maybe gratitude, or even redemption, But most of all imagination and description, That paint many different pictures, And I need them to be written, For I am the master of the pen, My imagination and words never end,
For words are my world,
Because my mind can create different scenarios, Different brushstrokes,
Where lines come from the heart,
And turn a blank page into a work of art, And also even come from an angry place, The heart creates when it has been used, For anger and hatred can be part of the heart too, But I will try to let the words move, From my mind to this blank page, And hope that what I write,
Twice, thrice and toto-frice? I consolidated visionaries and pander to picturesque paper planes my no-muse-phantasm perspired a subfusc syllabic synchronization of thoughts and vexatious turmoil trespassing the point of my lifeless nefarious-nib,
Using a bleaching-burner I shan't efface eulogia which I traveled by my wings, so-called libraries and when I relish that tangy sourdough of inked-journals I morph into so autumnal-auburn-ashes
I have travelled on paper-palimpsests trailing towards the manuscripts meandering on streams of solitude selecting a succored-sauntering synecdoche and bled bonfires to those dark and doused palabras
A safari to hunt the seraph of poetries or a globetrotting to gleam glossaries I've smouldered suffixes and massacred mutilated poetries.
(As I saw in the comments not many people got the actual point of this poem let me give you all a summary about this, This is a poem about a quill which sum up the visionaries to indulge and carve Paper planes through fantasy and trespass through the turmoil of its bewildering sync of thoughts and life which are odious to its nib it will die inside a bleaching-burner will keep writing itself eulogies will travel the hidden libraries and will taste that sour journal of those ole journals it will change into autumn then will be auburn ashes. It will travel on palimpsests, manuscripts, solitude, will succour the selected synecdoche by sauntering on them and will bleed fire to dead words. Whether to hunt the poetries or to travel through the world of glossaries it'll burn the suffixes and maimed poems. Hope this help you all)
Beauty is upon you like those poems which are caged in teeth of colourful rhymes pulverizing death into chunks of clouds who crochet rainbows through stars and dust
Beauty is upon you when frozen goodbyes were decorated on a plate with nostalgic sprinkles of couplets which made the sky blush and the mountains burned into flame-full frost starlight was sewn on the duvet of dictionaries and you ate them with fork made of crescent of Moon
Beauty is upon you and those fleshes which smoulder with cigarettes and charcoals and then they sculpt the summer rains into never lasting aura of poetries and beauty of words.
I'm A Dewdrop, Sometimes Worn By Their Empty Eyes To Kiss Their Pain As A Teardrop
I have travelled the junction betwixt rainbows and rains although my fragile, delicate and curve physique is hard to elope with any season or sky my pockets are filled with the peonies of hope while my dewy flesh can constellate thousands of monarchies to cosmic burgs
The hiraeth those icicles cause shiver my soul but those blossoms glow my blued womb with shades of snow I feel grey in lips of autumn when a petal of lily wither indicating another yatter of grave-gardenia with an apt ambush of coronavirus on the people of Vatican to Russia
I try to mask those innocent eyes with fog and drops of tears but how can I stop the violent flames of inhumanity and let clouds snuff the lightening of tyranny and to chunder camaraderie as I know I'm the last and eensy extant of nature afraid of being blown off in the poems of oblivion .
(Vatican is worlds smallest while Russia is biggest country)
I never wore a chaplet of divine mercy on my forehead as it makes me a sinner
From heartfelt hours holy waters, chanting gaslights to fireflies or some sojourners who love fireworks as they sojourn on the catastrophic twilight
I have reeked of moribund sunsets or tsunamis which always mentored me towards a charpoy entwined lace to lace with dead skin and cryptic smiles
My womb was a crib of happiness and joy last night till I lost the one hundred and fifty seventh string of hope I sprinkled the petals of disquietude on my grave it attacked on me in darkness with collywobbles and death
I once bled to reek then I healed to again bleed so I healed to reek and I bled to kill the main protagonist of my stories.
(157 poems I have written till now) *charpoy is a light bedstead.