On the nights of December,
I hide the sketches
of faded hearts
under my full sleeves, pale yellow.
Love's like porcelain
in the tangled streets
of this known snowy city.
I haven't slept for decades,
I remain awake, my mind's eager
to see you again.
The unslept nights pass like this,
a single sigh, a dry tear,
a blank stare at the white ceiling.
The colors drive the thoughts crazy
when the dawn breaks through this muffled heart.
A black bird shrieks;
its kohl has got erased—
The long wings flap towards the tainted blue
of depressing poetry;
A lot of emotions have seeped through
layers of my brittle heart—
I feel nothing this time.
The scribbled notebook and your dusk pink songs—
You left them on my bedside table;
you're busy exploring someone else's galaxy.
The bird's nowhere to be seen,
it has left me as you did.
At least, I bade it a 'goodbye'
But I don't know what to call yours,
it was nothing to you as me—
a rotten petal smelling filthy, useless;
so you threw it
in the trash.
My lungs are tired of carrying this chaos,
the bottled-up emotions,
so am I of fighting with them.
Sometimes holding back is harder
than letting things go.
I want to drown
in the ink-black water of emptiness.
I want to get rid of this smoke,
I want to be weightless.
But I'm too tired now—
I'm done with them and myself,
almost DONE.
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the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||