They warned me
love doesn’t last
dear god please
help me then
for I have failed
fallen into bed
with fierce love
charging through
surging passion
sucking the sleep
from dreary eyes
seeking past sockets
searching my soul
keeping me alive
with gushing thoughts
and a pulsing heart
but when day breaks
and eyes crack open
that flame’ll be gone
shame though’ll stay
my book’ll be strewn
and I’ll be screwed
’tis a burden, a curse
to have fallen in love
with words enthralling.
Tag: poetry
Game Time
He trudged towards me
in too big a shoe and tee
he stopped next to my chair
and looked at my tinted hair.
It was in a spur of the moment
my character needed adornment
And with his black beetle eyes
and tiny lips still showing signs
of the meal he had a while ago
he frowned like it’s embargo.
Then with hands on his hips
and a stern look over specs
“Stop playing and go for dinner!”
ordered my four-year-old brother.
Looks Say Naught
Her gaze was as cavern black
so dark I could barely see
past those sockets.
It seemed hollow
cold,
echoing, unforgiving.
Her touch was as cubes of ice
sending bouts of shivers
down to my spine.
Transcending to me
vague,
chilly, and nothing.
Her smile was empty as a cup
that had lost all within
and its hope.
Her lips parted
forced,
small, and unfeeling.
Her heart was as ocean deep
going further than ever
to cherish her love.
Though none knew it,
hidden,
living, and pumping.
Welcome
I opened my home to you —
Because you had left yours
And evil had made it worse
Reining unspeakable terror
On you, who’d done no error
I opened my home to you—
We are the same, you and I
arms isn’t our way of high
weakened by war this way
revive we shall one day.
The Natural
With a passion for shades
and water colours for tools
he went looking for a school
to learn and become an artist
he knew no new technique
yet his views were unique
teachers told him bug off
you’re no good, get off
he strove still to no avail
all nightlong he scribbled
and daylong he dabbled
tried doing acrylic on canvas
and tested sketches on paper
shady outlines, weak curves
many hiccups and near give ups
years of toiling and redrawing
rework, redesign, recolour, repeat.
And people called Artists naturals.
The Chaos Within 