Don't look beyond the illumination,
It can vandalize your vision,
Don't glide through your ambitions,
You will glide back in collision,
Don't hold blossoms in your fist,
The spikes are contagious,
-Says those who are already drowned in loathe from the rampageous

Kneeling down on this filthy floor,
Filthy with guts and audacity,
In the hands of every form but me,
While im here still dreadfully desperate for an ally,
But social interaction, though I covet for it a lot,
Its still unendurable to liaise,
With all psyche and be extant,
Except the unseen ethos,
That i seek answers from at night.
©inkedsolace

When you sight your frame,
You see blossoms and the holy grail,
The musing tamed,
Where the terms of beauty may exhale.

Its arduous to believe,
What fate has trawled you along,
Until you heave,
That"s when you prolong,

Prolong all the utterance made,
But then you say no to the notion,
It's hard to bare yourself afraid,
Though, little did you know that letting go would be your relegate and believing in the geniune and the beauty of your soma breaks the demotion.

In this court of thorns and roses,
There are immense threats that life poses.
However, through this endeavour,
They spar to undertake and sever.

They, the ingenuous wonder who 'they' are,
They are the spirits and psyche that haul you afar,
They are the facets that stow you awaken,
And the vital force that fore you of the forsaken.

But, though you are stirred,
Which is everything except the eerie wind,
You still don't possess the viciousness to brawl,
Or to discern the phenomena that enable the pneumatic to at least sprawl.

Sprawl, let solitary, its hard enough for you,
As an intellect, to understand, to *****,
All the thoughts and doubts you wish to abandon,
Until by the stupor you understand, that they who you wished to envisage were the omnipotent and his drudges that are abounded.

The dispiriting prison bar is now your frontier,
What left your character drowned in blood,
The environment draws you with fear,
Your living corpse plunge to the befoul scud.

The critics, the juries, virtually invisible enemies,
You need to hear their loathe in the darkness,
Around all these hopeless entities,
It's a woeful depiction of inferno.

They got knives of deception and treachery,
As you turn your back, they stab, you kneel,
Wish you die in a blink, yet torture gradually,
You have entirely deviated the vocation to heal.

Victims learn from mistakes,
You never did,
They will hurt you again for all sakes,
But then you realize you're stuck amid.

In the gleaming lustre of joy,
There's a requisite factor,
A hope to seek some buoy,
And to resist the impulse to shatter.

I open my palms to the divine,
And beg for a prodigious fate indeed,
Listening to the cries depicting the sign,
Until despair eats me up inside, counting as a need.

But is it genuine?
That all corpses turn to the might,
I neglect the thought and continue with the credence of men,
As thought it leads me to the height.

Alas, anyway,
Despite the greed to reign,
In a shallow corner of my bay,
I yet restrain, the hope to attain.

While my solitaire heart cards its burden,
Except an adequate emotion yet surrendered,
The naive call it ambitions that can cope all turns,
The materialistic lose it in blinks, abandoned.

Hope is the desire immensely perched into souls,
Time wandering and neglecting but keeping its pace,
It's another world for this frail and whole,
The nourishing instincts of nature's prophecy and race.

Though timid and balm to all my frenzied pain,
Still striving, it whispers peace and remorse,
But certainly keeps it secure and strain,
So much that it stays aided even with the corpse.