Self Taught Reality | a poetry book

Space of Melancoly

There's this feeling that I miss
it was stinging but kept me company.
I predicted the things I've heard
and I've co-written what's in my head.

Charred, teared, dead.
Word upon word brings to one single road.

I lay in bed, feeling the texture of my nails,
they feel like little tiny frostbites waiting to be tamed.
For some reason I feel dumb as hell.
For some reason I can't wait to pretend.

Creativity can only do so much,
common sense is what gives me hope.
But because I do nothing but destroy myself, I must change the way I look ahead.

Writhing on the same place, over and
over until the autumn haze, has
brought many memories into surface.
Like the rain and mud on my princess dress, the day of my 5th birthday
when I never saw my father's face.

I lost the ability to distinguish the
geometric shapes, they all look alike
to me.
They all look like lumps of flesh,
grazing my own skin, leaving it
bruised and sweet.

I believe there was an effect, a change
in dimensions, a space of differentiations that led me here.
I believe I'm not done writing, unless I
see roots of something inciting.