~
                     I don't even need water
                    
                    to feel like am drowning .
                                    
                           I don't even need
                
                       broken shards of glasses
    
                       to feel that am scarred

                                          ~

Sometimes the night is so quiet
feels like it's demanding us
to disperse into its chasm
like the seeds of silence
and caressed by the darkness
A perfect zilch to be within
leaving me with a kind of abscess that only a deadly cold could favour me such
and me lying and enduring the abyss.....

Respect for everyone on here who acts so sweet,
Little acts of kindness everywhere,
Intelligent poetry and clever comments,
Supportive people and sometimes a kind private message.
Being on here restores my faith in humanity.
The people on here are beautiful, all in their own way.
Never I will say without flaws, we are all humans here.
No, we aren't without flaws, that us the best part,  we accept each others flaws.
Respect for everyone here who votes on my poetry.
I am happy with people like you.
And the nice comments on here, on my works and on the works of others, I am proud to be part of this community.
And to anyone who send me kind private messages, you are the best.
Respect for everyone on here, first of all for being human beings.
Secondly because you being so wonderful.
Respect and thank you

Sitting down to a game
that neither of us knew how to play ..

That is what poets do

They romanticize pain
They idealize the torment

There is solace in darkness
Which they craft to enlighten;

Lure with words
The forlorn is adorned
Guilt is charming
Mistakes rewarding

That part that is revolting
The best line in their poems.

That is what poets do

They embellish heartbreak
To cement the heartache

But as soon as they leave their paper
and beautiful words captivated readers

Life can no longer render
The adequate metaphor
Agony is agony;

There is no substitute for it.

When the poetry flows through you,
it waits for no perfect moment,
there is no convenience mustered
to await your finding
paper and a pen.

When the words come,
you just know,
you feel the syllables rising from
the tips of your toes,
exploding out of your fingers,
propelling you into an
unsuspected state of
delirium as your mouth
silently forms the shapes
you spit onto your notebook,
brave hands twisting and
turning purple letters
round themselves,
brain melting and oozing
out into similes and metaphors,
pictures popping from
stories told and
secrets disclosed until
in one final swoop
the moment passes,
your work is done and
the pride and fear and
vulnerability and anxiety
you just birthed
stares back at you,
its ambiguous smirk
leaving you breathless.

Flower to my grave
Water to my sins
Fire to my soul