For

He would rather,

Nestle in her tranquil smile,

Let her soft fingertips,

Trace his jawline,

Than sit with me,

On the thorny ground,

And pick up

My broken pieces,

Buring his nails

In the coarse dirt

And the soot

From my bleeding soul;

I blame him,

Not.

Advertisements

Withdrawal.  

 

4 days.

Since the last fix.

Throat parched,

Thirst unquenchable.

Food tastes of ashes,

On a cracked tongue.

Limbs shiver,

Craving for a dose,

Breathing uneven;

Vision blurred,

I feel the world revolve,

All too well.

 

Delirious,

For a parasite,

I loathe to my gut,

An illusionist,

Who tampers my reality,

A snake,

That poisons my hope,

A dagger,

That bled me countless,

A leech,

Who sucks joy out of me,

A quake,

That shakes the ground beneath me,

 

To consume again,

Would be killing myself,

Come to contact again,

Will maim what’s left of me.

Yet my veins dangle,

Yearning for a glimpse,

A sign that you exist;

Some tiding,

To console my empty vessel,

That you are not entirely

Of my mind’s concoction.

And remind myself,

Of what hell’s fire it was.

 

As History Repeats…

On a Saturday evening,

On a black couch,

History repeated.

 

It was the same couch,

Around the same time,

The same you,

 

Except in my place,

Wasn’t me,

But one reformed than me.

 

Behind a glass,

With a heart-lost chest,

Was I.

 

Standing there,

Watching the smiles,

Screaming tears.

 

You wouldn’t turn back,

You couldn’t see me,

Or sense beyond your rainbows.

 

Where I was,

Was dark.

Noisy. Crowded with shadows.

 

Where I was,

Was a place in between

Your past and my present.

 

Where I was,

Was a groundless marsh,

Between memories and reality.

 

Where I was,

Was a wavy ocean,

Of stark choice and ambivalence.

 

Where I was,

I couldn’t break the glass,

And enter the past,

 

Where I am,

I dare not walk in,

Through the shattered glass.

She

I imagine,

That she has sparkling eyes,

That showers you with mystery,

She knows the key

To all that you lock inside,

She has a smile,

That dampens your rough-edged days,

Her wings, humongous and made of steel,

So you feel safe to leave

Your dreams, at her feet.

 

I guess,

That she has well-manicured nails,

Painted with hot, steamy red,

She walks and talks with sublime airs,

That makes your knees shake,

Knows how to pick her wardrobe right,

What goes with what and whatnot,

That she’s the image of perfection,

That you forget how to breathe,

When she’s by your side.

 
I hope,

That she holds you tight,

When you aren’t too sure, where you stand,

That she knows exactly what to say,

When the ground seems to quake beneath your feet,

That she’s worth the blood of the heart you broke,

That they redeem your soul

Off the friend you butchered.

 

Castles and Shells

He was a child,

He toddled down the shore,

Throwing fits of mirth,

Picking up seashells.

As he ran with dismay,

From one alluring shell

To another,

He fluttered his arms fast,

Tossing around the shells in his palms,

And trampled past them.

 

She was a girl,

Who limped after a dream,

Where she was still a child.

She sat on the shore,

Searching for a soul,

Whom she could run to

And show her wounds,

When they stung and the blood gushed out;

Who would kiss them to heal,

Each and every time.

 

But he was a child,

Who built castles that shine,

Adorned them with shells,

And mangled them down,

Once he got bored.