I will never write a poetry about you.
Because what I wrote were my unsaid pains.
Uncried tears.
My broken self.
And I don't want you
To be one of them.
In this world,
Where letters are my warriors,
Words are my wounds,
Sentences are my scars,
And a poem is my pain,
I'll forever keep you
As my whisper of peace
Beyond cold wars.
As my tap of rest
Beyond tiredness.
As my click of happiness
Beyond grief.
Because
You are way more than
Those unbearable pains.
You are way more than
Those uncurable wounds.
You are way more than
Every poetries I wrote, baby.
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 9:24 AM UTC
By the vague darkness of crepuscule's foe,
Throned in eventide; Thou art an empress.
Sitting queenly like a calm hiss of ***
Thine eyes of aurora's hold thine fortress.
Whilst laying there upon the lustrous day,
Is an emperor of dreadful distress.
Owning that place where melancholias lay.
Bestowed upon him a might to oppress.
They're separated by continuum.
Living in the words, they are antonyms.
Coloring the dullness, they are contrast.
And by his destiny they are unmatched.
She's the one he wants but can never have,
And stars above, he wrote: Our tragic love.
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 9:10 AM UTC