Noisy fragments in my bones
the tinkle of a thousand coins
none can hear the echoes
in the holes of an empty soul
Loneliness in a glass of red
wine, blood from my hands
crumbling in writing to lovers
nonexistent, to hearts
They do not beat like this
poetry of incoherent words
wondering around mad
sounds, stars and scars
The favorite cigarettes are
the one counted as smoked
places I've never been to
are the best one, the unknown
Attracts more than a constant
morning message, than a soft
goodnight kiss and I'm so guilty
of my broken lips, your sad eyes.
YOU ARE READING
Red wine, black ink.
PoetryI write during the nights in which insomnia hits my soul. Poems steal my words and make sadness touchable.
