"for poets doesn't live if they don't bleed ink on paper."
This is an anthology. All the poems are constructed in a free verse. It does not use consistent meter patterns, rhyme, or any musical pattern. It thus tends to follow the rhythm of natural...
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The man I met on the 7th street, Was a murderer with a bony cheek. He held my hand high enough, And secretly tied them while kissing me back.
A lone wolf hiding in a sheep clothing, Wrecked my dreams and drowned me deep. He shouted loud as if he was the victim, Like he didn't put a pillow while I'm asleep.
He's not even guilty, Even though he shattered me, He's still smiling widely, Even though he saw me sinking under the sea,
How cruel he is for laughing And insulting my art I cherished for long. He's not even guilty When he shot me dead while singing a song.
How dare he, kissing my forehead twice, After releasing arrows multiple times. There was never an apple in his eye, For he already gave me one with a poison to die.
Cruel for me, I can't unlove him. Cruel him, he can't love me. But when I asked him if it's fun to play, He'll always smile, he's not even guilty.
