you should have an intention
to own yours attention be conscious of your species be unpredictable like dices use more spices smell your faeces constant flow of changes be with it, don’t try to hold write your own pages be patient, free and bold
I will turn the pages this time,
Not the tables But the pages For the chapter is over now.
𝙸𝚗𝚔 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚜,
𝙷𝚊𝚕𝚏-𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝙿𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜; 𝙰𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝. ⌨ 𝚂𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚎, 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝.
‘She was fury, she was wrath, she was vengeance.’
- Sarah J. Maas, Queen of Shadows
the scratch of a pen as it glides across the paper,
ink pooling in the words. a stain on fingers here and there, rustling pages full of thoughts. sunlight filters in through curtains, settling on the pages like snow on the ground. ink bleeds through to the blank side of the paper but the pen keeps writing, regardless.
kind of ironic to write this on a screen.
The pages flutter through your fingers,
The eerie theme lingers, But you turn the pages. You sink your teeth into this book, Your head staying shook, But you turn the pages. The words are eating you, Your thoughts stew, But you turn the pages. The last page is a mirror, The pages are much clearer, The pages turn you.
I turn the last page,
The next is blank. Blank blank blank blank blank Blank blank blank blank blank Blank blank blank blank blank Blank blank blank blank blank B L A N K Blank So white it's screaming So empty I’m left reeling The lack of words A void so loud I squint my eyes unseeing. I don’t think I’m ready yet I dont think I'll ever be, It hurts too much to be alone Is this the price of being free?
There's a story of a lonely childhood,
A saga of a musical teenage, And an account of a painful youth. There's a poem of romantic adulthood, An epic written in the search for love, And your sign in a moment of truth. There's one desire in my heart untold, A thirst that is yet unquenched, And your name on its walls of blood.
My HP Poem #1891
My heart is an addict of fiction.
Awakening your pages with every drum, it beats to remind me that you're my very own perennial paramour and I'm so sick of its pounding propaganda. Copyright © 2020 by S. Y. Kalindara. All rights reserved.
Why does my heart keep insisting that you're the love of my life?