You perch perilously Close to chaos With feet dangling On two edges Of a mountain Your arms are Wings, and they Have been scarred But you do Not know what Its like to Have them cut off And I love You, so I Beseech you to Step back, you Smile and say That this is Not a fight You will ever Back away from.
I watch you As your heart Carries the hopes Of the many Whose tongues were Ripped out, and Your voice rises To a crescendo As the words Fall from your Lips like bullets From a firing Range, they crash To the ground And shatter a Silence that had Become too comfortable Grown too commonplace Now I understand Why you were Willing to stand Even if you Had nobody to Stand beside you.
Tonight, an idea Takes birth in Your soul, and You are both Its father and Mother, your face Is coincidental, and So is the Skin and bones That lie beneath Them, it is A delicate balance Between anarchy and Revolution, a fine Line that you Have become a Master in treading Words are a Rather precious gift And you only Yield them to Speak for those Who have stories To be told But no one To hear them.
The skies are dark and empty The sea is deep, The woods are full and lovely, But I seem to recall having promises to keep
Thoughts swim around in the murky depths that be called my mind Numbers that cease to be except just before I fall asleep. Truths that elude understanding except the night sets in. It's all white noise up there, though I always loved whale sounds and orchestral symphonies are to my fancy. There's a woman in blue singing and the dark man that I am is behind the piano. I know her face, I remember her name but I black out of sight when the world turns off and she's the only one left. Being lonely is pathetic, being hungry for a need that you can't fix (Or is it a fix that you don't need?) She sings still. The nightingale is always a serenading mystery. There is a war. Rumours of war are often wars that are ignored until nothing remains. Losing you feels okay. Loss is natural to the lost, but the unloved feels empty too. I see a light. Chocolate appeals to me, still caramel has got its hold on me. I lo...... What was never mine cannot recognise me as anything but a distraction.
I want to be clear, but the cryptic clutter are the only means by which the lunatic communicates.
These are the first words from my pen or lips in 36 days. I regret even speaking now still.
Do you recall who I used to be? Silence is a gift to the mute, a blessing to the dying, but it kills the insane. Problem is; I am not sure which of these I am, or if you exist. ...
Love is like a tattoo etched upon your heart. It can never be erased completely. You can cover it with the brunette locks of yours or the varied coloured sleeves that you’ve chose to rest your heart upon for the day, blue being your favourite.
(This is ridiculously long, I know. But, words are never sufficient to describe love, are they?)
I had asked people for some writing prompts as I was out of ideas and the lovely @ariachez suggested the topic "love wrapped in..." I literally wrapped love in something! I had been working on this for a long time but it has been hard to write these days.
It's about our hunger for love. Be it on social media or in real life. It's about the fake love we seek.
Love wrapped in silhouettes And stars. Is draped in tainted glass. They sell it by the kilo, In silk and timber flasks, Adorned with expensive jewels To give the bottle some spark. The market is flooded with buyers Paying handsomely for the broth. They await the potion to cook through; Brewed from exuberant flowers. The roar just keeps on surging, As the elixir is dripped into its pot. The crowd is consumed in chaos And a chance to fight for the box. Clashes and betrayals follow, To attain the illusion of love. It's sad how we break people, To repair our broken scars. In the end it's all just empty - The vials and even the hearts.
Was my love not poetry enough For stargazers studded in shimmering hues In the long journeyed galaxies with racing blues?
Was my love not poetry enough For the monsters with deafening roars Hiding under the lamp posts with a soft past that bellowed?
Was my love not poetry enough For the birds of nonchalant voice amidst The river cries, with their tuned dyes gushing through all that life?
Was my love never poetry enough For the man under the mask With eyes like that of a petrichor Who wrote poems about a girl in white And told me I was like exactly her poetic sight?
For this man was a demon with twisted horns and curled smiles Who told me he loved me like a stare-er of the darkened nights And vanished like a dried voice Spreading perfect rainbows of happiness Flew like a humming bird in foreboding waters of raided tales For his poetry wasn't tamed by warmth And just my love was never enough.
I write in blurred lines, The empty white is like a controlled flame I treat everything like bloody arson's lullabies But I am a cryomaniac, So I have the cold seep in, hypothermia in the vein.
It's hard to understand it, The words are like rattled mice in a burning cage I shove logic right up there, letters for every twist of the cube(Rubik's) But I'm a masochist Indescribable as it is, it rips me asunder with exquisite pain.
Love is a nasty game, 21st century version of it has a way of making you crazy Affections and your counter decisions always needing updates But I'm an ace lover, So I give my hearts to beautiful sirens, Davy Jones knows me by name.
Nocturnal by nature Long have I been friends with the night I love sleep the way an alcoholic loves Walker and Nessy But I'm an insomniac Stare at the ceiling half the night, the rest spent in the dark, I receive sight.
Watch me caress the keys Cocaine and charcoal mixed so imperfectly your ears might bleed I believed in music, classic Beethoven might detest me for being deaf too. But I'm a virtuoso Somehow, whenever I play the piano, people shed tears and never leave.
My eyes look old Evidence of a tortured soul, lens change to blur the reveal My colour's a ragged brown, chocolate that got scorched in uncomfortable places But I'm a lost boy Pan took my body as it was and made it his, a thousand curses.
Reptiles adore me Well, most animals like me, and to others, I'm supper for an empty belly I seem nice and all, the guy you could play games with But I'm an ophidian Look closely in my closet, skeletons covered with shredded skin.
Crimson looks awful on me Some resist emancipating souls from their ignorant homes, young as they may be Teaching them that life is precious and fickle and not to be wasted But I'm a murderer The streets remembered my legend: Jack with a frosty skeng(blade).
Van Gogh, forgive me Painting you mental pictures too graphic, put a ban on it Now, I am more of a Renaissance rebel, art should not exist But I am an artist You've never seen me work with black and red, quite enchanting.
Call me a bishop I hide in my castle, play pretend as a knight and out comes a pawn; me. Lining up chaos and presuming that there's order to this shit But I'm a grandmaster Here's a final lesson from the king; make no moves, make no mistakes.
@fireblast_ you inspired it. Welcome back, Miss. I'm not sure you'd even remember me. That's okay. Ghouls, after all, are not ones to recall, or remain. Ghosts never require fame.
BMT, eh, if any one would prefer that I just do the #10thingsImgoodat trend in the same pattern Miss Fireblast created it in, do indicate, and I shall proceed to do so almost immediately I read their comment(s)/observations.