Intense pain and anguish,
I know not how to express.
Time, will you take them with you?
Slowly, if not swiftly: I'd settle for anything.
Angst, sorrow and hurt.
I try to write but,
Can't seem to find words.
Heartbreak can be one's poetic muse,
But make another's rhyme freeze for good.
I attempt intensely to turn them into art:
The tears, the torment.
I can't bear them anymore.
Hoping my verses will lessen the load,
Has my writing failed me too now?
Sometimes I imagine to be in an ancient writer's crib,
With nib sliding on paper as swiftly as my emotions take over me.
With ink bottles splashing as violently as my inner demons.
Hoping ache will flow through my fingertips onto paper:
It's somebody else's misfortune now.
But I cannot concede,
I refuse to be betrayed by my own lyric.
And so I write:
I write when cruel storms outside force me into four walls.
I write when my mind confides me into metalic prison bars.
I write to hide, I write to run a-wild.
Because you can hurt and betray and wound,
And walk away without a tear of remorse.
But my words will always come:
Like warm blankets of comfort, like iron chain-mails of protection.
YOU ARE READING
Unfinished Paintings
PoetryA collection of my prose, poetry and epiphanies over the past couple of years. I've always loved writing and composing, but I'd never assumed anything I wrote was worth being read by anyone but myself. Writing has always been a way for my mind to co...
