I will drag your predation  to mine
to mix it and prepare it as a perfect wine.
I will not leave your line
until I make sure that our gloom is fine.
trust this dust-path and this shrine
of our love that will always mar the sunshine.

I can sense my pain’s sobbing,
Sighing and leaving no trace
Of being passionately damaged.
Gifting itself a bunch of hopes and flowering them ferociously with the abscess’s appearance. No gesture could fill the gap left by being desperately injured.

.
.
.
Hello ex-Hubby,
I meant the handsome dystopian boy,
currently, I'm writing you the sin
I remembered that craved the most,
when I dared to
penetrate my colorful virtue spot again.
to ride the last whole night car with you
in a hurry,
and forget about the evil you,
hating women, dressed in your dark flurry.
I embraced those tiny white palms in my head.
when they refused to touch me back and ride ahead.
instead of losing interest
and forget about reverence you physically,
I kept my fingers crossed secretly,
under the car seat,
next to the prestigious scent of yours.
Your North African amber eyes
that refused to match mine,
to get lost between their depressed universes and shine.
I prayed along this magnificent time,
to God so he could with his 99 mercies
make you fully mine.
The lava that burst divinely
out of your Tunisian delicate betrayed my senses
and lit the full hungriness towards your beguilement.
I encouraged my half stability
to make it through
a little bit far from you,
my hallowed brew
with every single meter that we've passed
I fluctuate amid the idea of capturing you devilishly or sacredly, between making some blood contracts with the devil itself,
or donate as much money as I could,
for the sake of being together,
burring ourselves on an old bookshelf.
trichotillomania; the colorless ferocious ogre,
that used to assault my bright aesthetic soul,
as a tight fatal choker
to remind it chastely,
of the imperfection portrait of mine.
and pursue its pride with a fiery scourge,
matted with brine
when I started to rise my jaded fingers
to covet those golden cheeks.
I failed!
the deficiency is capturing me
The keloid I hated the most
as I carry my dramatic havoc away,
a little bit away,
from your inner fray
pathetically, I turned my whole feelings
against my well ignoring the idea of
love Subliminal and its spell
facing the windscreen
that harshly afford me a great frustration
trying to cover my hope with trash sack and provocation.
I failed,
escaping the life blackmail,
convincing me to practically disbelief on you.
But I kept myself as holy as I dared to.
despite of my Viscera's beating,
crumbling and shrinking.
I kept my grin harmfully, blinking.
under your realm seeking for a light of your anger that will
console me again. and bring me home.
Happy Birthday!
.
.
.

Grief has a lexicon that
I’ve spent a period of
hard times seeking it
I gained nothing but an enormous
failure to devote myself
to its complete literature,
The perfect Salvia Plath is
patting on my cumulative sores,
admitting that it is my right to
file a grievance against my chores,
work, and daily unfair routine,
as she said that she used to be
so wicked; writing all the day
and forgetting about studying,
she said that I had gotten such a
black-and-white soul for
almost uncountable centuries of
self-wars,
Dear Nicole: She wrote—  
Whether you are a believer or not,
You dare to be the
ninety-nine hundredth savior to
the definition of our nihilism.
Sincerely yours,
Sylvia Plath
I closed my eyes and
bleakly enjoyed her poetic
admission that I had faked it
for a while to
keep my victories beating
against all the brightness and
naturality inside of
my pores,
I’m not a happy person;
I belong to sorrow.

It's killing me when
I couldn't reach you anymore,
when I couldn't fight for you
or even cheer you up.
How far we've come,
you and I,
like a spell without its flame.
I miss you and the way I
used to pamper you on your birthday,
but today I couldn't even say it to you
because we are no longer together.
I'm bleeding from the inside,
and you're not here
to tell me to stop overreacting
and grow up.
I miss you,
I really do.

It's okay to fail again.
It's okay to drown insanely, to Inhale the whole fire, and to forget about the water creeping up into my collapsed lungs.
Dearest darling hubby,
You set my fear free for a while,
I'm still yearning for some of your tenderness.
I wish I was lucky enough to keep impressing you for a long period of time. I love you desperately.

after the doomsday
there was an actual poet from the hell,
who always had a knout
to torture their  pale faces
within huge dark fiery cell ,

he ruined and burned their compositions
and made them melting together
again and again  
in a very dark position.

when the god revive them for the sixth time
one of them wailed and said to the poet:
my dear destruction divine
secretly, let the heaven to be mine
and stop giving our thirst
this cursed brine.

the poet responded  and said
yes, i'm the real destruction divine
of course i will not give you a wine
but i will turn off the pine
to keep you close
to your final dark line

Stop muting the
breath of your fear
Just Drill your own beer
to find your golden jeer.

And

Let it smash your own tear
Until you find your rights
To live your cheer
Without yourself
And without them my lovely deer.

she reached this ugly place
and found a dark trace
that captured the terror within her face,

the trace became like a hole
within her senses and heart
like a nasty big ball

she ran towards nothing !
like she was in an actual race
because, this dark lie!
put her in a dangerous case
until the trace shone again!
behind her, like a grace
and suddenly, stood up!
in front of her!
like a heaven base

she stoped, and felt sorry
when the evilness within the grace, was too sick
she licked its inner wounds so quick
until it healed, and its health became thick
but all of the sudden,
  she felt the hit!
on her head by a huge stick.

there
within this scary darkness
she left her breath with sadness
and about the evilness
that hiding within the grace soul
you can taste its gladness

in this Morn,
Under this clime,
She found her dark hails,

She tasted its drops and thee can hanging it
on thine blue nose Thro’ this explode.
now, after the mad mass
the Isle became bold , because it scattered the inner gold,
And whose wailing is this?
Who knows!
But,
Before you go,
Cheer their death up
and embrace your pavilions
And fly carefully
Towards the panic .

English is a medicine, not a pathogen.
English is safety, not war.
English is kindness, not viciousness.
English is a trust, not a trap.
English is a gift, not a robbery.
English is freedom, not detention.
English is a poem, not a verdict.
English is a reward, not a punishment.
English is a fairytale, not a calamity.
English is forgiveness, not accusation.
English is honesty, not manipulation; keep it close so it will fly mountains for you, and so I am.

The folks in heaven were angry
Because their trees were hungry
That’s why
They killed the last cranky.

After which
they feed the trees amply
With his blood which is totally
Fancy.

But all of a sudden
The greed attacked the branches
And start to spread the sins
In the form of patches.

And finally,
the handsome cruelness built its rituals
within the holy individuals
until the terror bloomed within the folks
and hunt the heaven
to burn its strokes.

next to this real terror
there was a real door
that has an error
with a number four

she tried to hang it on it
and ignore its lore
furthermore,
there was a single sore
within its living bore

it hate to lie
but he liked it before
when he was sure that
it is an angelic core.

he will never have more
of number four
even when its rejection towards her
is so poor
but it still can find the inner shore.
within her gore.

once upon a dark time
there was a dart
that came and made us apart
with huge different wills of arts
I write
when he likes to be within the plight
I draw
when he mars glow
I swim
when he likes to drowning
near to the brim
of our fancy dark dart.

she kept her death
within her breath,
she joined the destruction
with its half seduction.
until she fell in love with
its obstruction.


by:blackedpoison

Once upon a time, in a toxic embrace
Us, and your shadow, faint and cold
I held onto your lies, against my knowing,
Till awakening came, and I started going.
Begging for warmth, for love's reprise,
Met by your silence, under cold skies.
Today, I close that chapter, bid farewell,
Exchanging your poison for stories to tell.
How could you break the love promise?
And compel it to swell with its calamity
And burst within its insanity
Like a perfect incantation
In times of ignorance.

lead me to the sun,
That will be always
the main symbol of seething
And
the convincing reason
who I'm bleeding.

let its dark lava pray for us,
to have the blessing for our fuzz,
And don't forget to
care about its volatile rage,
thus you will get the golden page
of wisdom
from the right sage.

hide your justification
within the body of your mystifcation
And
don't dare to fight the circle of black fire
that will cause your happines
a great ire.

Holding your breathtaking handsomeness,
like dancing with the same alluring malice
that draws its scars over my innocence.
The elusive harmony that brings all
my weaknesses up,
like a romantic novel
drowning between the mouth of
the Mariana Trench.
How could I
bring those dark days back?
How could I not let you go?

‎‏I danced through, your eternal desires
like a prohibited shimmered star
that has no ethereal heaven to belong to,
where the lone fear scattered in
its enigmatic expanse
dared to accost the whole cosmic void,
you said that I was like a breathtaking nightmare
that tenderly captured you and
left you breathless.
But I knew It was like a momentary trace,
you would never be mine, my fervent boy.

I belong to the first place
where we used to overdose on dreams,
ones you've since forgotten.
I persist in being yours,
despite the challenges we face today.
Happy birthday to you.
The shattered words I've held onto
remain yours,
whether I can articulate them or not.
Today,
I comprehend the weight
of punitive silence,
and thus,
it transforms into a blessing in my life.
No one would impose it upon me
before it morphs into their fear of
losing me in the first place.

he wrote that:

when she write her poems
she published the fire within my bones

she killed me, with her thrones
when she was fighting the life, with her tones

I lived there, between the groans
when she knew, how to bloom the stones

when she write her poems
I have to try to withheld my moans

she tasted the dryness of her   blood by mistake.
and she realized that her veins were fake.

she walked towards the red lake.
to commit suicide!
while  she found that the water was flake.

the death was  rusty,
like a rotten big cake
that will never digest
Within the body of snake

That settled in her nightmare
And keeps her terror awake.

Here…
Where I’m unable to feel your presence,
Where the lack of joy and lack of motivation
Are dancing vividly along the darkness…
I would be determined and eager to achieve my goals, next to your gentle, harmless envy.
But today,
My melancholy is cherishing my epic loss,
telling me I’m neither your lover nor your foe,
I’m nothing but a forgotten chapter
A thing that will never remain
Precious to you.

I am no longer yours to keep hidden,
They all know now,
Yet you refuse to acknowledge
That I am yours.
After the battles I fought for us,
To be together,
You vanished from the truth's gaze,
And sought refuge in falsehoods.
I apologize for investing so much in you,
For sacrificing everything
For your sake.
I regret clinging to the hope
Of our forever.
I'm sorry.

I’ve become too jaded
To fight,
To sacrifice,
To believe,
To persevere,
To confess,
To love,
To dream.
I’m so cynical
To be yours.