Recently, I wrote again. I wrote a poem. Now if you've read my past posts, you would know of the tumultuous relationship I've had with my writing. This was something born out of happiness, not negativity. I wasn't writing to impress anyone, or to prove anything. I just wrote to express.
It was liberating.
It's very experimental. I don't know how many people will understand what I mean to convey. There's no romance involved. It's just an account of human relationships, and how they flow.
Please leave feedback. I'd like to see how a poem born of satisfaction and calm reads to other people.
It was liberating.
It's very experimental. I don't know how many people will understand what I mean to convey. There's no romance involved. It's just an account of human relationships, and how they flow.
Please leave feedback. I'd like to see how a poem born of satisfaction and calm reads to other people.
A Jagged Verse
Taciturn tonight.
Dead inside.
A flame so bright.
Burning twice.
The song of ice.
Cold and lonely.
Shivering. Smiling.
Blanket of lies.
A blanket of lies.
Covering.
You and me.
From harsh light.
Light too bright.
We'd burn and blister.
Unable to survive.
Such beautiful light.
Unveiling.
Stripping.
All the deceit.
Gone up in smoke.
Acrid. Inhalations.
Exhale, mingle.
Cancerous. Like us.
Addictions.
Addictions.
Nurtured.
Vapourous coils.
Prisoners.
Morality and mortality.
Visions of which.
Illusions of space
Delusions of mine?
Delusions of mine.
Your reality.
A crystal city.
Crashing and crumbling.
Melodic chimes.
Born of destruction.
Regeneration.
A cycle of pain.
Vicious. Unrelenting.
Entrapment.
Of the willing kind.
Variety of scars.
Decorations.
Medals of honour.
Survival.
Delicious irony.
Cost too great.
Exchange of fates.
Still surviving. Still breathing.
Not feeling.
Numb.
Dead again.
