Somewhat Thankful: Ended. A joke.
An afterthought adrift in favorite songs,
Floating with the swirling smoke
I exhale across the pages of what went wrong.

I forgot to pay my rent yesterday…
I window-shopped for shoes instead.
I deserved them—I had to face the day,
For pain, I always choose to tread
Quietly. Privately. Until it fades
Into a place where no one hears —
Where breaking hearts decay in shades
Not of blue, but blackened fears.

I smiled, knowing it was true.
And somewhere, Satan quietly cheers.

I am letting you go now... now.
Outside, the rain is waiting
To take me somewhere—somehow.
Roadwork ahead, traffic's suffocating.

Their eyes land on the toilet
Printed on my shirt. They smile.
I smirk, "Not for flushing to forget—
But somehow to make the soul fertile."

One, two, three — my heart is dead,
Not because of you, but by my choice.
It’s not love that I dread,
But the raw pain in its voice.

Watching the world through a bus window glass,
The universe, the time, the vastness—
And still, there was never us.

Silence, like a glass thrown up in the air
Then exploding, its shards like a nagging echo
Raining on a heart, and it's so unfair
To bleed for love that is not there... Is there,
Through this weary way of silence, I must go.

I would turn around then I would not turn around,
Your smile and glances preserved in my mind,
And in my heart, reenacting in the sweetest sound,
The dreamed embrace, the joy missed, the love undefined
Through this weary way of silence, I would find.

With my eyes abandoned of you, fixed ahead
These weary feet, to nothingness may be led
But at least now with a direction to go,
One major burial,  strange, a final song in my head
Through this weary way of silence, I know.

I've seen this before, a walk of nowhere to go
But perhaps, a bluer mojo rain shall fall for me
The road free, clearer, braver, kinder and timely,
Truth undenied, fear deposed, honesty not in throe
Through this weary way of silence, you know.

Some-Velvet-Briars/ May 25, 2025/ 2:51 AM

Five vials of hope before 2:55,
An epinephrine Saturday feast
After midday, preventing time to arrive
Again, to stall the curse at least.

The single drop of tear tells it all,
I guess I've seen it coming.
And it did, but very stealthily, the fall
Disguised in serene eyes staring.

Broken voices of 2:55 and hence
A glass of water, a pat on the shoulder,
Paper works, the waiting, querying the sense
Reduced to an atheist's prayer.

The chaos ceased, all quiet on the front.
The war is lost; not a dream did survive.
Life is a poem that is so blunt,
All gone, after midday at 2:55.