When starvation twists our muscles with
its sharp edges and razor-sharp kneecaps.
All those nights when alcohol
bleeds out of our blue veins,
we recall our riverside homes,
swept away in devil storms.
We drink our hearts out in the burning vodka.
The street lights hover melancholy in
the pale cobwebs.
The train roars low, clinging metals and
broken laughter; we are the burning pain leaning
against their gentle kisses in the elevator.
The despair washes away with the fainting hatred,
but the agony lingers behind around the
razor cuts on our arms.
The graves look like silver tragedies at night;
a cold lullaby passes by.
All there's left are our rain-soaked bodies and untold pain.
We need this.
We lay on the bathroom floor,
auric red flowing across our limbs,
and the half-empty glass of drunken sorrow in our trembling hands;
The emotions lie empty here, killing themselves with us
while withering away in the shades of indigo.
Our daydreams and fantasies of paper planes and shooting stars
are a beautiful hallucination of being alone;
A constellation of destructive poetry
where the dead poets return again and again.
We draw lonely lads drowning in a sea of stars
and crazy ladies with liquor-washed mouths.
Cerulean silence of shunned loneliness.
We scream at the stars for death to
admire the bliss of homecoming and nostalgia.
The burning liquor's killing us slowly,
numbing the pain into pieces.
Perhaps, we would return as crashing waves
upon the butter sands — humming with oceanic euphoria.
When we would slip away in the molten colors of agony,
Bury us, oh stars, in the withered lilies under the starlight with crushed cigars
and ink-splashed letters of love;
A daffodil would bloom where our souls were trampled upon.
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A/N: A little star can wink if you enjoyed this, right? ;)
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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 ||
