There is something wrong about
The way i breathe The way my lungs fill The way the air leaves There is something wrong about The way we kiss The way your eyes roll The way i choke on this The atmosphere tastes sour Like a papercut and The taste on your tongue Isn’t foreign But that doesn’t mean it’s welcome There is something heavy about The way you’re numb The way you’re ****** So you can be with someone
last cold friday
she confessed that she only likes me when she's high just like i guessed so we broke up broke apart broken hearts scattered parts from something like my skull
Opt...2 roads i have a choice... Option... Can i raise my voice.... My conciouness... Talking... Should i trust him cause am him... Either... That's another route.... With different signs... I need yahh... As i lose myself..... In the mist darkness.... Can you hear my words... These words teach yah.... Cause they are the world.. Scripture... I ain't a preacher... But am the last prophet... I have been here. Wither My soul...dry... Drought change season position... Like pieces of a draft.... I doubt...the pen in my veins... It carries alot of secrets pains... Its the 14 day.. Observing the periods.... ******* cycle repeat... Is this my defeat... I wither... Lose all i had dehydrated... Probably my soul in stilled in society and social media hatred... Comment... that's my last moment.... Sweat and tears... My own body Wither...from decision taken either -kay🌹 Aka...🕊️-son of lee-dia-🕊️
Either or wither...2topics as a single poem
Feast or famine.
The dry summer or monsoon season. It’s not as though he had murdered me. That would be easier to prove. There would be no hiding the blood of it. And how I did bleed— years later, red all over it. Improper. Fuel for the fire. Combustible. But nothing trembles as I weigh the being of my existence against what stoppage. Order or chaos. Black or white. What has been spoilt rotten can never be golden. These are the questions I ask myself: Am I loved? Do I love? Can I love? While there is the story he tells himself, reassuringly: It was just ***. It was just ***.
I am scared for my Life and
Our Oath will keep both of us Safe till I build orphanages, old people's homes and till our songs gets Grammies, B.E.Tz and a special place on the internet! I decree
All Poets, Musicians, Artists and Listeners are Prophets if not Prophetic!
If you’re having trouble discerning
whether specific discourse is satire or stupidity keep in mind if it’s one of those then the other version of that probably exists.
I touch your skin
with my mouth I inhale your soul, your essence is the heart of the morning breeze upon my lips I am set alight burning after your horizon my petals pulsate until I slump inside your chest I am the sunflower you are my fire I follow you like mist meets the sun with me it's all or nothing.
For the way it should be
In the morning before work
I sit on the floor and pretend that it’s dirt. I look out the window and pretend that it’s church. That gods of the earth and sky and space all did their research in collaboration to be sure that today is worth it.
Defy the paradigm, The escapist void, Lines of code I refuse to obey. I defy, Defy, All emotionalogic. I make no sense, Or a dollar that pays my way to ignorant bliss. 'Tis the streets upon which I so selfishly make my way and, My gears turn with no source or destination. I am the, Status quo of the chronically out of place. So, Take that next step, Show me.