A few throw in their Towel.
Some drown in a Pool of Tears.
A few fight life, like Fighters.
Others suffer through the Years.
Few string up their sentences
and bleed with words they Write.
Writing Prose and Poetry,
they hardly sleep at Night.
Fighting their daylight Battles
and waging a War with the World.
Their Words at times hold Promise.
Alas like a stone they’re Hurled.
Words don't decay or rotten.
I read them as I lie down in Bed.
For Others they seem all forgotten. 
I'll keep reading them, till I'm Dead.

Curse the poets blood.
No matter how much I cut myself, I cannot bleed it away.
Curse the poets skin.
I cannot tear it off, it holds everything in.
Curse the poets feet.
The more I try to run away, the more they dig in, rooted to the words that ground my life.
Curse the poets tears.
They provide no comfort. They blur my vision, wet my pages and smudge my ink.
Curse the poets mind.
At times I dream of throwing it all away. But I cannot differentiate between reality and figments of creativity.

102722

She was drowning in her web of darkness
But nobody saw her struggle —
Nobody and yet her smile’s
Still as sweet as cherry in the bitter night.

Faces forced into ruins
As they look for crying shoulders.
But she kept her brilliance in her vessel
Despite her smoky and fiery red eyes.

She whispers hope
Even if her radiance is put on hold…
She says, “There’s still beauty in ashes
And painful tears could still portray
A wonderful masterpiece.”

She wipes for them as she seeks no return —
And she lends her wounded hand
While her bleeding continues
To diminish her worth.

She was dancing in the rain
Finding comfort in the blanket
Of the roaring and proud oceans.
He was leaving her existence —
With the melody of unspoken apologies
And forgotten regrets.

While some people keep changing partners —
As if it’s so, so easy
Like changing their hair or their clothes…
Hope that it’s not to avoid changing themselves.
Hope that their choice will lead them
To the betterment of themselves.

They’re so busy growing up,
Chasing their dreams —
Praying and believing that these things will last…
But they often forget
That they’re also growing old —
Old days and now it’s getting cold
And no more whispers of love are told.

Red, and it's my best colour
My favourite mood
Smooth with lust and passion
But remember to take time
Recluse and resign
In crimson divine
Rest your body
And your mind
Teach your soul new things

Retreat to your sweet tooth
With sister shades of beetroot
Magic promotions of your moon-tide
Emotion hurling joyride
Relax as your muscles un-hide
Find your knots and dots
And plot as you breathe the outside

Paint yourself in feelings of taboo
Slip sleepy into daydreams
Ego embrace as you create
A silhouette that forgets she is you

it's not about the pain.
it's not about the price.
it's about the sacrifice people are willing to accept
to get what they want. to get what they need.
understanding they're willing to do more than bleed.
because understanding is the first step to earning respect.
and a world with more respect
brings us one step closer to a world of acceptance.

hypnotic dreams, what are you telling me?
I feel everything, I feel myself unraveling
the beautiful ribbons suddenly choking me
I can't breathe, I can't see
the winding road ahead, me ever leaving this bed
possibilities are endless but not in my head
there's only one way or else I stray
cannot see myself set ablaze at the stake
I thought I was magic
turns out I am just a magnet for tragic endings
suspending my beliefs, diving deep
I hope I can reignite the spark in me
the sparks I bleed and not just drown in this sea
heaven watch over me

I let you go,
like the waves rolling on the shore,
and a little boy who lost his footwear,
crying scared to go back to her mother
where he had lost the gifts.

I let you go,
like a couple of ashy Prinia birds
dancing among the bamboo branches
sing loudly in the breeding season, build nests and lay eggs,
but replaced by the eggs of cuckoos that grew and were cared for with love.

I let you go,
like cities that have long since died
the quiet and lonely
and people left
and no one ever came back to occupy.

I let you go,
like the paintings of pain
from wounds that bleed and lose
displayed at art exhibitions,
and everyone was amazed to see.

I let you go,
like a memory in a photo album
from loved ones first,
yellowed full of blotches of teardrops,
worn-out dusty and looks real.

I let you go,
like an angry poet
in front of half-finished poems
who have been lost for words for a long time
to be reassembled.

I let you go,
like falling rain,
and a boy running around looking for shelter
with wounds on his right hand
holding tightly to the thorny rose.

I let you go,
like a book
and sad stories
which has been left for a long time
after reading all night.

Once again,
I let you go,
as a most perfect poem,
that I have written,
from the remnants of memories in the head.