Life’s poetry isn't flowing like before;
Metaphors growing stagnant and leaving stains on the pages, like pressed flowers in my blank diaries.
No longer is my mind a sweet adobe to the psychedelic abstractions, running wild, stumbling off the cliff and dissolving into the mundane reality;
Which burst into sober hues here and there, painting my everyday.
I wake in this everyday, healed and scarred;
I walk in this everyday amidst beings of beautiful mien guising grotesque entrails.
Icy criticisms pierce through these ears, melting on this burning flesh, sipping through every tissue, and embedding in the bones.
Is it not painful enough to own these fatal inner conflicts, mutating into lethal thoughts, fabricated into reality.
A sort of pitiful nothingness is bedewed upon all the pages of life, I turn.
I’m stranded on this blank page;
I’m running out of words, i’m running out of ink;
Just with the somber sanguine streams flowing underneath this ashy skin, with which I intend to fill this void but fail.