To write a poem properly
That is my dream
But I can't even
Remove my mask
I don't even dare
To think quietly
All my poetry is failure
Spies that pretend
To be activists
A violent movement
A laceration
That bleeds black bile
Violence circle my mind
Like vultures around corpses
The sky is touched
By the redness of my cheeks
And I end up crying
Until night comes
What remains of my poems
Are dead organs
Words that fail at being words
Mouthful gibberish
What's left of my tears?
Acid rain
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 4:32 AM UTC
To write a poem properly
That is my dream
But I can't even
Remove my mask
I don't even dare
To think quietly
All my poetry is failure
Spies that pretend
To be activists
A violent movement
A laceration
That bleeds black bile
Violence circle my mind
Like vultures around corpses
The sky is touched
By the redness of my cheeks
And I end up crying
Until night comes
What remains of my poems
Are dead organs
Words that fail at being words
Mouthful gibberish
What's left of my tears?
Acid rain