Ethereal

A Cursed Writer

A delicacy, plucked from a garden.
It hangs in your hands,
and it curses you with his writings as he prints them in your blood.

He loves to capture the blues and the pinks of the sky, in his poetry, hoping, the sky would admire it.

Mine is a naive soul of a sensitive boy made out of wild daisies, and it has learnt never to shed the poison ivy that grew along with it.
And if love is what I've been in love with, then I guess I'm a cursed writer, writing about the depths of those oceans I never discovered
...yet.

I dream of being a colossal poet,
a remembrance, longing on book shelves long after I've gone.
Riding down the boulevard on your bike is another dream of mine.
Fulfill it darling.
Fulfill it.

Take me places where I would kiss you and the society would flinch.
You'll try to cure my flaws and I'll embrace them even more, and so,
we would laugh about it while listening to the radio;
trying to sing along to a song we've never heard before.

I cross names in my diary because I found friendship too late.

But who am I to love love?
Who am I to wait for the friendship I don't need anymore?
I'm no Silvia Plath, trying to slit my throat at ten, because I'm not 10 anymore.

These voices say I'm just another self loathing poet resembling to a broken glass and I'm ruined but I'm not deprived of happiness.

A writer cursed to love love.
A true love's kiss to break it away.

But for now, I shall swim in these words, waiting for someone to dive in.