gripping this pen,
a bleeding ink full of pain.
bruise words act as a wounded chain.
a traffic flashbacks inside a train
this is a letter to one's lantern.
i used to write
with a heart full of blight.
it's like i'm on a flight.
yet it stops, when i get this fright.
looking round n' round,
i saw you in the crowd,
laughing so loud
with someone you love.
reminiscing the old days of mem'ries
of what we used to be.
it's killing me softly.
screaming silently.
lost in the deafening silence.
looking for the missing piece.
my subject, in my broken masterpiece.
a ripped imagination of my dreams.
YOU ARE READING
ain't first, ain't last
Poetryto be one's saturn. [old poetry collection for someone we could never have]
