She was a flower,
And he was her sunlight.

She needed him,
More than anyone else did.

Without her sunlight,
The sunlight she needed, she would die.

Yet too much love from him,
Could make her heart turn dry.

My sanity,
I doubt.

Am I that hard to love?

No, I don't write about you.

She was an abandoned city
Deserted homes, burnt bridges, empty roads—
A jar of ashes, of stories, of memories
A sanctuary for the forgotten ones

You are more than a masterpiece.

I drank a bottle of blissful yellow paint
Lured myself with the calmness of blue
Drowned myself into a pool of thick red blood

And I found myself, staring at your eyes
Because, love, I realized, it is where my palette lies.

I had spent a couple of nights
Listening to your silence
I had made the sea turn red
Sinking to your fretful calmness.

A soulless body she was
Pale skin, chapped lips, dreary eyes
Her ribcage filled with soil
Flowers sprouting from her mouth
Her veins like vines,
Wrapped around her legs
Her skin, ripped
Corrupting was her flesh
Worms coming out—
Out of her senseless ears
As unfathomable as nadir—
She buried herself,
The insignia and rosettes,
The books she read,
The verses she chanted,
Her dreams, her fears—
A forgotten temple she was
Hidden in the middle
Of a busy city filled with people
She never knew
And at night, she would write
About nothingness,
Her cats, the mustiness of her youth
Tasting the divinity from the salt
Flowing from her eyes
She wanted god, she wanted sin
Pondering on the elusive thought
Of life and of death—
She just craved for sleep
Lay her body on a casket,
Be one with dirt—
So she drank the ink,
Poisoned her senses
And with her pen, a dagger
She stabbed her core
Rejoicing as she bled magenta—
She decided to die,
She decided to die
Before the monsters inside
Would have feasted on her meat

Sensibly we talk and nonsense we go
Orthodox are the words uttered
Profane are the verses sang
Deceptive are the eyes buried

They appear pious and they are saints,
I speak sacrilegious and I am vindictive
How the flowers bloom is fate,
How the flowers bloom I hate

When kindled is the vigor
Ignited are these roses,
Of Vehemence we had a feel
Of Abhorrence we had to ****

My own path I have,
My own dreams I latch
A soul wandering at the prairies,
Gored yet numb with your poetries

Amorous is the depth inside making me drown,
Covetous is the realm outside wearing a crown
To which force will my heart listen,
Lost in labyrinth I am and fallen into warren

When left as memories are the stories,
And burnt into ashes are the memories
The sun had consumed the earth I know,
But not the world of artifice we had grow

Nostalgic is the place!

The smell of burnt hair
The rumbling silence
The carpeted floor
The taste of dust
The furniture, all in plum

It is the forgotten place!**

Where she used to write
Where she used to weep
Where they revealed their cores
And where they uttered their goodbyes

The roses had wilt
The bridges we built
Shattered with blood and tears
Of antagonism and of our fears

Yet at midnight I caught myself
Half-awake collecting the ashes
Driven away by melancholy,
Shadows of your light abruptly vanishes

You, you are still on my memory
Vivid and colorful, I discern the hue
Of the all the photographs we never took
And the empty frames hanging by a hook

You are the poem that breathes.

A machine I am
And the salt from your dreary—
Eyes — is my fuel.