We are no ones friends,
Yet no one knows us.
We are the voices at night,
Be still my unsteady denizens.
We are the boy about to be a man,
See how he crumbles at our leisure.
We control his misguided plans.
Forget his nuanced rants.
He is a broken man held together by stitches,
Hap hazerdly controlled by a painful intuition.
Pins and needles are his riches,
Holding back the hourly inclination.
That feeling,
That rite,
That unbroken threshold.
The look glass of Alice,
To him is the blade of a rusty stiletto.
YOU ARE READING
Who is He?
PoetryA look inside my tattered mind. All of these are original poems written by me in various moods of my life.
