Last I could remember was my sister,
Running towards me with a sharp blade and blood blister.
Vacant mornings and bed of plain routine,
2 years past since the loss of queen.
Neck eternally stamped with a razor knot,
Thoughts nevermore within vengeance plot.
But sobered up, I’ve seen it all before,
No sister nor blister, a schizophrenic lore.

In the long shattered distance among the valleys of yesterday,
I still see my indispensable,
Struggling through this mystic shadow of a world,
Repeating ancient words that none perceive.

Rhapsodically she rose, like a glistening butterfly
Just slit her way of an imprisoning womb.

She gave me life, the reason to prosper;
My muse in hardships.
She shined on me, of light brighter than that of a supernova.

I still see my indispensable,
Clearer with every passing second;
She’s forging sturdy yet fiercely.

And just when I dogmatized it’d be inevitable,
She dispersed, to simple memories and love poems.

We cun our beings with these bottles of lies and lustful shame,

Promises broken and desires untamed.

We clench them tighter as ever before,

And rise higher demanding more.

We write our names on burial walls,

fulfill the mighty destiny of Adam’s *****.

Cigarettes,
and hypnotic glances
within her
hazel brown eyes.
Moonlight,
too short of her
innocent beauty;
the dreadful silence
resonated like a
harmonizing violin chord
tuned in between our
intertwined souls.

There she sat, in the faint yellow light,
in nothing but white lingerie,
a box of cigarettes to keep her company.

There she sits, soaked in smoke, viscous grey,
something to please her schizophrenic perception,
something to unburden her, remind her of her God-given free will,
a term rather easily scribbled on papers.

It was not materialism she sought,
she aspired for something far greater,
she wanted a sense of freedom,
to know what it’s like to be unchained;
even if it lasted mere ticks.

Deep breath, she no longer sits on her bed,
for the first time in her life, she was… free.
Two passers-by glimpsed overhead,
sighingly mumbled, “don’ya ever wish to flee?”

Believe me it’s no coincidence that the greatest minds in history possessed a fair share of mental pain, the kind of terminal pain that worked on nearing the tip of a gun so close to your head, that the mere pressure would now **** you regardless of how physically strong you pertain to be.

Pain is the screaming noise in your ear when you’re most silent,
pain is a dead rose in a red garden,
pain is a soldier that never returned from the battlefield,
pain is breathing, only to fill your lungs with sharp knives and poison.

But pain is also the fresh twist of ink on a yellow paper,
a metaphor on the side of an abandoned building,
the disfigured face on an empty canvas,
pain is the sculpture in your local museum,
the revolution erupting under your skin, in the darkest recesses of your emotionally dysfunctional brain.

Tell them you didn’t lose the power to be happy, you only lost the need for ever having it.

Sometimes, you still feel love, but only in tiny shots, enough to etch the outer layer of your skin.

Pain… is a reminder of all the rebellion, wars, and suffering it took to bring you here today,
it is a reminder that you must do something about it, create something, silence this deafening roar of guilt.

Pain designed this world, joy was just a late guest to an already blooming ceremony; how silly of her.