Poetry has destroyed me, It has also rebuilt me everytime.
Poetry has ripped my liver out and shoved it back down my throat.
Poetry, writing, creating, It’s a dangerous thing, and most people don’t appreciate that. I risk my life to write, one night I could flip and die. I could overdose on words, and end up on the other side of life. When they find my body, they’d find every word I’ve ever written crumpled up in my tongue.
He held my hand and took me away From the lonely woods To the hushed skies Left my hand and told me to fly; He glared at me like a star-gazer Advised me to sparkle and flare To fulfil his yearnings, I had to fall; He and I, a happy us He told me about the home That was secure for me, And told me to be the lion In the fierce jungle; He took me out of fears To live fears; When all I wanted was A forever shield I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong
/(Bard)iche virtuoso/ I was a poet: trahison des clercs
I never counted stars as they burn the house of dusk manipulating the daydreams to fell in love with ephialtes I'm a drunkard cursing the flashbacks and photographs of augur. I'm depicting the future with threads of past time I'm a bardic barque whose debris are being stepped by mariners as flotsam unable to fathom; a prolix to rejig the spaces and bardiches into poems which are hard to gulp and not-that-easy to cognize the roads I build with black and white images They left They left one by one two to four and in thirty days where I tasted the three sixty fifth rotten flesh of forevers
Nobody stayed the home to my soul the love of my life the salted-buttery elflocks of my grandma the last wish I made while celebrating my 11th birthday the guy who keeked through the orifice of fornication the bullets of prophecies the matinee to masquerade happiness
howbeit, I was a poet
who is a poet ?
one day my heart asked I was discombobulated I read books, watched movies I kept being inquisitive But steadily instead of getting an answer
I started a war betwixt my heart and mind,
A virtuoso bard , bardiche and bandit named life snuff the cigars of chivalry and puff out the intumescent verses of ruination
I'm partaking in sighs, cries, thwacks, flames, relics and coal-camphor of the pits of villainy
_ I'm not guilty of the trahison des clercs I caged, by trading my poetic pale-flower. I'm a cobblestone of perfidy.