Tag Archives: drugs

Cutting Silences.

In that time,

As I cut lines

Of silence on the

Back of your hand

With shards of paper

That bled

Unwritten poetry,

All I could think of

Was the way we trapped

Our passing times

In the space between

Our shaking fingers,

And the way I let

Loose into your nostrils

Powdered forevers

Laced with tremors

From my fading


In that time

My nose started dripping;

Was it blood, or screams

Painted in technicolor?

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The rants of a madman.

It’s been long since I last picked up a pen and bled on the paper as I used to before.
It’s our third day together and I still dont understand why we were away for so long.
I think of it now and my life before you seems to be a continued state of haze.
Years, months and countless days.
We were a couple of hearts, beating together. Yet, so far apart. An unknown force, a spirit or a ghost, a supernatural entity or a religious deity. I still dont know if you’re as real as you seem or are your scars and your pain, your lies that drive me insane and your hair a shade of cyan; the color of rain, just a dream.
Today, as you stare back at me when you’re vexed. I see in your eyes, a poem that I wrote but kept hidden.
I was afraid it was too good to be destroyed, by some thousand minds and a million likes.
You lurked beneath my words and sentences, glorifying each and every one of them.
I see you paint in the middle of the night. A pleasurable sight, an artist in all her might. I dont need to write or compose any longer. No words for my sorrow, no stories of a painmonger.
You consume my heart like the poem I never wrote. Rhymes elude me. You’re a dote. A pointless mote. A heartfelt note.
You’ve driven me insane and left me too proud to ever write again.
Why shall I rhyme or type a useless whine when I’ve touched you and you’ve touched me.
Why shall I paint or ever sing again when you’ve completely driven me insane.
A lion’s glorious mane. I still dont remember my name, but I sing of yours and I don’t mind the same. Are you a damsel in distress wanting to be loved or a silly old eloquent dame.
Either way, you’re all I’ve ever dreamt of or wished upon a broken star for. You’re the poem I never wrote. A pointless mote. A heartfelt note.

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