A little confession

What if I told you

I’m a prisoner to the voices in my head

A stolen kiss under the mistletoe, quick and embracing

A consequence of the darkness floating inside of me, consuming and terrifying

A madman set free, lost and scarred

Would you still stroke my hair, kiss my face and watch me fall asleep,

What if I told you?

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I am a writer.

I am a writer in search of poetry

I am a writer coping with my syndrome

I am a writer with a liberating tattoo on my ankle

I am a writer attempting to finish my previous poetry

I am a writer wide awake at 2:05 am with a heavy heart and black ink

I am a writer with dehydrated lips and a croaky voice

I am a writer sitting in a library with a bottle of sula

I am a writer with broken relationships and average vocabulary

I am a writer that likes blueberry jam in between oat biscuits
Maybe, I am not a writer

Maybe, I am a drunkard with unsettling things to say to you

Maybe, I’ll tickle your spine a little and kiss your earlobe

Maybe, I’ll ask you to come visit me sometime

Maybe, I’ll pour you some scotch and show my paintings to you

Maybe, I’ll sharpen my knife and pluck a few lilies for you
Maybe, I am not a writer

Maybe, I am a drunkard with thoughts of ruining you in the most beautiful ways.

The Forbidden Existence

How are you?
Okay, i guess.
except, you left me
and all i am now is, the
surface of reminiscences
we wove together when
i was little,
the remembrance of the
touch of your rough skin exists
even after ages,
how i used to wrap my tiny hand
against your wrinkled
wearied fingers,
the vibration of the sound
your throat echoed
when you called out for me,
the rusty mark of your
presence,
still pierces my soul,
but,
like any other day,
I’ve chose to remain  quite.
back then,
my eyes questioned you ,
though, they still
seek an answer
but, mostly
all this while,
they’ve dug your presence.
but,
all i am now is, the surface
of our musty reminiscences Read More