a body
of
stories

Before, I wrote of Masks.
Mutilated stories of written flesh.
A carnal retelling of misfortune,
In the pages I wore upon my face.

Now, I am just another Mask.
A solo sonnet amongst scoreless faces
Beyond them, a broken boy
Hostage to disharmony.

A deep, heavy sigh, erupted
From my choked throat,
My forehead lay on an opened book.
I wish to be lost inside it.
My fingernails dig into the open crease,
Trying to crawl inside.
To be released.
Into a world where my heart has belonged all along,
Into a world where I can do what I'm meant to.
I devour the pages.
Hoping it would consume me
While I consume it.
Release me.
Release me from this world so existent,
Physical and realistic.
I smear the ink along my pupils
Hoping to see a new reality.
I sew the pages to my back.
Hoping to forever lean against them,
When I need to be taken away.

And do me a favor,
write me
in your letters
and keep me
between the pages
of your diary.
Right where
the dead rose lies.

Often,
Words elude expression
And on pages blank,
No ink splashes emotion.

Often,
Words refuse to materialize.
And when parched lips part,
No secrets elicit nourishment
To the bleeding heart.

Often,
Colours play hide and seek.
And inside bland lives,
Never do hearts find a reason to beat and beat and beat.

But often,
Expression survives without the crutches of words.
And even the blankness of pages
Become evidence for the empty hollowness gnawing inside.

But often, blurred words escape the rhizome of parched lips
As they quiver and quiver in hopelessness and speak a tongue of their own.

But often,
Bland lives fail to seek colours and remain bland
Their world turns into a living coffin
While the dead caravan of numerous bones breathlessly goes on and on and on.

You're a fool
I will step out
of your zone
and claim
my own
for my galaxy
was too colourful
for such
black holes
Good
Bye