Pleasures spiral and sprawl outward
Escaping the small chamber your parents regulated it to
Devouring dollops of your time
Until you become sick and restless
Fevers, blankets, and soup for recovery
Seeking madness once you’re rested and wrestling with boredom
This ruinous routine is never naturally rundown
Only perishing once true passion is found

I want you to live, why don't you?
Set in self-destructive ways,
Wish I had the power to help you heal,
You are so gone you don't want to be saved.

you painted me like a beautiful picture:

one with our future ahead of us,
one with both of us laughing.

there were strokes of anger
of pain,
of our fights,
but looking at it now,
the aggressiveness of your brush
definitely highlighted the beauty
of the painting:

it showed
the wrinkles of our face when we smile,
the creases of your clothes forming lines towards my arms holding you close,
the light in your eyes when you look at me — as if the world meant to me and i was the only who deserve it.

however,
you left me in a single room.
i thought maybe, i was that special.
that i was one of — or better yet your greatest masterpiece.

as you smiled,
i felt happy.
i thought maybe this was it.
a painting you’re so proud to show the world.

you crept towards the door
went for the switch and turned the lights off.

and just like that, i waited for months
for the lights to go back on.

i knew in my heart,
that this beautiful painting i thought was your masterpiece,
became one of your hidden collections,
that only you could exclusively see.

just like what you did,
to the others before me.

I don't like it
but it's not for me to say
how best to deal
with internal silent
deafening mockery
still, I wish I could do more
than simply comply
when trough cracking dams and swelling waves
you ask
to be left Alone

Well you destroyed me,
Ripped the happiness away, shredding my skin into scars as I fall.
I trusted too much and now it's all my fault,
How could I ever hate the one that saved me, even if it was momentary.

You took a poets words away,
And stole my confidence.
So now I'll float through the night sitting on some drug fuelled motorboat,
Trying desperately to escape the iceburgs.

But the water is cold and inviting,
So let me be self destructive as the captain tries his best to fight me.
You've left me in the dust and I couldn't hate myself more.

Oh, the critics,
When you use,
Your fleshy and sticky tongues,
Or,
When,
You scrawl your sharp pens,
To peel the skin,
Of your alleged offenders,
Then,
You look like a butcher,
Chopping and mincing the meat and bones,
Or you like a vulture,
Sipping the blood of a half-dead cattle,
Come shed your literary arrogance,
And wrap your forked tongue,
In a cozy shawl of praise,
And prove that,
To correct the torn skin,
A pair of surgeon’s scissors is needed,
And not a butcher’s knife,
For sure…….