the bones in my legs
are like shattered glass,
yet I am still walking
on these two shards.
I have no home,
no place to claim my calm.
my search for peace will not rest;
I fear for my soul’s journey in death...
as this is a never ending conquest.
How to become a poet:
Let someone rip your soul apart.
And in the need of mending ,
You will replace it with words.
dissipating into the dusk and ghostly dull,
may be the very place where your
luminescence can be ignited in full.
I do not know of halcyon days,
for the daily outlets of my extremes
are still too dominant in order
to appease the thirst and flames.
the world doesn’t change its harmful ways; my pessimistic tendencies therefore never falter. although the older I become, the more tiring the hatred feels.
Take the pen.
Spill the ink.
Write your heart out.