grounded in this reality
always, something keeps me. today it is my jeans, digging into the soft skin under my belly, reminding me
this world was not crafted around my form

she smile like nothing's wrong
but she feels like
she's gonna die alone
so much sorrow filled in her eyes
her stomach full of butterflies

it poured that night.
so much so that it seemed
that god knew he was
in pain.

he wielded his weapon,
gripped it in guilt,
he wanted to sin.

he was alone.
so he felt a solemn comfort.

the type of comfort that
hurts
the heart and accompanies
the soul.

he could not wield his
weapon any more.
he could no longer
fight this treacherous
war against the enemy.

himself.

so he held it up,
just enough
to aim at the
source.

just enough to mask
the cries and the tears
and the pain
with the rain

as it poured, and poured, and poured.

he called god’s name,

but it just poured.
and poured.
and poured.

until his cries were no longer,
as they had finally ended.

as they fled from the sentence
of life and blended with
the lonely droplets on
his window.

and it poured, and it poured, and it poured.

and he called out one last time,
and finally made a decision
that night after god’s absence
was made clear.

and suddenly, there was no more sorrow.
no more pain, no more fear, no more shame.

simply, peace.

as the red painted a beautiful
piece on the window.

and then the rain
stopped.

-melancholicreator

if a painting
had your voice
i’d sit and
watch it dry
for millions of years

It's like hearing the ticking of a time bomb
But not able to find where it’s coming from  
Until you put your hand to your chest
And then you realize
That the bomb is your heart
And the tick, ticking
Is
Its
Beat.

.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
     It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
     be found.
          It's a book shelved high that wants to
          be read.
               It's the freest of all birds caged but
               unbound...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
     It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
     colours.
          It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
          translate its thoughts.
               But it can see through the eyes of
               painters...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
     It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
     of musical harmony.
          It doesn't follow the conventions of
          genres.
               But it sings its voice loud without
               restrictions of melody...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
     It's an exploding universe, that merges
     back into galaxies.
          It's a sought after painting, that boasts
          of unfathomable beauty.
               It's an everlasting song, that echoes
               within the poet that embodies...

You ever had a feeling
That you wanted to die?
And acted on this feeling
And you survived
And questioned why
You're still alive?

You ever had a,
Ever had a feeling?
That made you wanna,
And acted on this feeling.

You ever had a feeling
That rids you of all reason?
And makes you hate your very being?
You are blind
And I'm searching for a feeling

Can't find a feel,
Because none of it is real
I'm traumatized
You say that it's not real

You are blind
And searching for a feeling,
I'm.