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Tuesday, 14 March 2017

That is what poetry is ...

That is what poetry is
The picked at scars on a hurting chest
Some that bleed with memories
And some that are healing
Slow and steady
The struggle of getting up every morning
Grabbing your pieces again
And reassuring yourself that you will survive
It is that nasty knot in your throat you carry around
Inside your composed and calm self
The mid day panic attacks of your missing self
The hopes you feel crumbling within
More than that,
It is the what ifs and maybes that bleed in your ears
And the slow realization that you have to let go 
Of the part of yourself that you loved the most,
The one you sacrificed,
The part that made you truly happy.
And whatever else remains in the hollowness,
That is what poetry is.

Saturday, 11 March 2017

You...

You.
You are the broken piece that hurts and pierces me inside.
You are bloodied pages I set fire to,
The thoughts I sacrifice my nights for.
You are the morning voice I miss
The sleepy noises that I crave.
The smell that lingers on my sheets.
You are the ruins of everything I want to discard
Pack up in a big bag and throw it far in to the ocean.
You are the cigarettes and alcohol that refuse to leave
The scars on everything hopeful
Your confused heart is the reason I'm here
Wanting you and almost telling you the same.
You are everything I wanted engraved on me,
Everything that will always remain empty.

...

We were the worst thing to happen to us
A wildfire on a frozen body
Raging madness on an unclaimed heart
Recklessness through a nebula
We were the poison that separates us from the world
The toxins we warned each other about
We were never a love story in a small coffee shop
We were nuclear outbreaks waiting to fall apart
You cannot make poetry out of ruins.

Talk ...

One day we will talk.
Leave aside the strangers that drift apart within us
We will inject our veins with the cheapest wine and untwist our tongues.
I will tell you my thoughts and you will elucidate your silence.
I will lay bare the questions that consume me in the bright light of day
And you will answer with sheer obscenity. 
We will talk about the way we still remained strangers between sheets
And everything we have been in reality.
There will be nudity in words and raw statements of truth.
One day we will talk and it will haunt you forever.

I Laughed ...

I laughed.
I lay beside you and I laughed.
At the humbles jokes,
At my breaking heart.
I lay there intoxicated by the way your tongue promised forever
By the scars on my abandoned ribs.
We talked of music and men
Of numbered days, of infinities.
I laid there, two different people inside out,
One clutching on to the hopeless imaginary figment,
One with whisky blood.