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9h · 26
But Don't Stay
Come back
to the moment.
Which one?

Yesterday,
the day before—
the sun was always brighter,
remember?

Come back
to the moment.
When?

Years ago,
I don’t even know.
The grass is greener
in memory than in the soil.

Come back
to the moment
when my mind saw a world
pristine and unraveled,
ready to be walked.

Please, come back,
little boy I once was.
Come back to the summer scent
on your skin,
and the raspberry taste
on your lips.

Yes—then.

Come back,
but don’t stay.


[Another recurrence of The Unwritten—spilled as art.
Raw expressions from an overwhelmed mind, and a trickster heart.]
Memories... they shape us. A bliss and a curse. Me? I still can't tell.
Only the *******
of the vilest of muses.

Made of clay,
sculpted by pain and grief.
Hope paints faint strokes
of colour here and there.

Made of mud,
moulded by fear and memories.
Love draws childish details
no one else could see.

Only the *******
of a crooked muse.

Made of dry sand,
we are destined to be destroyed
by our own very essence.

Only the *******
of a sadistic muse.

Like the breeze that begins
in a butterfly’s wings,
turns into zephyrs.
The absent words of yesterday
turn into clay.

Only the *******
of a cruel muse,
and the foolishest of poets.

With souls craving water,
love drowns us in an oasis—
yet pain forgot to sculpt a throat.

With hearts craving answers,
hope drowns us in a crowd—
yet fear forgot to mould ears.

Only the *******
of the evilest muse,
and a poet too much in love.


[Another recurrence of The Unwritten—spilled as art.
Raw expressions from an overwhelmed mind, and a trickster heart.]
What is the poet without his muse?
Words with no meaning, echoing aimlessly in a cave that vomits back the same nonsense it hears.

Oh, but what is the poet with his muse by his side?
Nothing but a slave—one who adores his chains, who crawls in delight and turns each lash into beauty.
1d · 97
Sweetly Deadly
Midnight makes no sound when it arrives.

Silently deadly you sneak into my bones,
sweetly deadly you nest inside.
With no time to escape
and too scared to play dead.

Night craves for no light
and my only shelter is my own flesh
but oh wait,
you are already inside.

Silently deadly like a virus,
sweetly deadly like love.

Every day at dusk, I hide.
But oh wolf,
you have to find me only once.

Loudly blatantly you munch my bones,
delightfully blatantly you nest inside.


[Another recurrence of the Devotion Rot habit—spilled as art.]
A love that spreads like an infection through your body - never asking for permission, just taking what it owns. A love that feels too good to be right. A passion too big to describe. A dark love we would love to feel, and yet we dread. What a lovely way to love.
7d · 252
Bed Time
I rest your head on my lap
and I promise everything is alright.
I caress your hair—
and it's myself who I deceive when I say
I will heal all that aches.

Playing peek-a-boo with your demons
I grant each and every desire.
Gasping lullabies to your ear,
do you rest when they sleep?

Playing hide and seek with your demons
they feed me all your whims.
Gasping bedtime stories to your ear
until you fall asleep
and they come with me.





[Another recurrence of the Devotion Rot habit—spilled as art.]
Poems telling about a love that lingers like a parasite, one that you welcome in the despair of loneliness. And one you feed in the need of being taken whole. Until nothing of you is left.
A soft lullaby you whisper while sweetly dying inside.

— The End —