Each day is
as a procession of
redundant clopping
on the ground
rhythmic sounds
that anesthetize,
mesmerize

have we become blinkered
along this trail
through life

like a steed in harness
undistracted by
glimpses of
clouds of hate
along the horizons
or seething storms
blowing in from the seas

I'm dry right now,
no tears are left
but you still make me fall
and you still tighten up my chest.
It feels un-natural;
how I've fallen but feel
nothing yet.
My bones ache for your embrace,
but you're a broken skeleton,
you cannot hold me,
you cannot hold a commitment
or even a conversation.
I can't remember the last time
I heard you speak.
The last time might've been
the first time,
I don't know what
there is to miss.
I'll turn a blind eye when
gasoline tempts me,
my carelessness will be my bliss.
You're wrapped in indifference
and you will not unfold for me
because you couldn't care less,
indifferent to a lifetime of
armless hugs;
the walls of your skull
have never memorized
my first heartbeat
because no one ever taught you how to try,
and I don't want your presence
to be my neighbour,
because your love
feels like forced labour.

- Crimsyy

A/N: Thankyou so much for reading! What are your thoughts on this one?

You gauge my feverish eyes,
Sick-to-death,
And you hide the medicine
And you serve the ****


A million hours
A million jokes
A million laughs-
All for naught

Over the chatter of rain,
her vegetable shouts
are hardly heard by him.

The corner where the roof leaks
and corruption draws a perfect circle,
he finds his anorexic love
neatly packed in polyethene bags.

The window is missing a shattered pane
lost sometime last year,
he gathers the curtain into a ball to repel the storm
but rips the silk to shreds.

He’s gone in the stillness between the flash and the roar
that threaten to overwhelm her once more,
she closes her eyes and the door.

any one person can withstand pain.
But there is a subtle difference.
When it isn't registered..
Like a dream that alludes the recently awoken.
For the moment is always questioned as fiction when it comes about.
As if building a freeway over the desolation would bypass the isolated incident.
With every pass does it become so.
And yet it is ever so aparrent.
Like a splinter made of ice.
For when the initial trauma fades.
The cold.
Numb.
Aftermath.
Sets in.
Making every other impalement go unnoticed.
Picking at old scars with phantom limbs.
Visible only to other ghouls.
Which have sadly become the only contact available.
And neither the shadow nor the image it belongs to are recognizable.
And this room full of strangers gains an addition to its ever changing painting.
One that will inevitably be painted over.
For it has become not only a constant.
But a certainty.
One that will be upheld.
Regardless if this hand helps it.
Or not...