Odd shapes and the darkness filled with the Black Plague and sharpness.
Knives engraved with love poems and poems dedicated to the widow in the window.
Masks covering the faces of loved ones and loved ones who never stopped to love one.
Those are some of the things that fill my mind in the deepest sleep that can only happen at night time.
In the times where angels sleep and demons prowl the streets seeking for some sweet release from a stranger facing his last week, I lay in bed awake, my body sleep.
Shadows that creep into the corner of my room stop to look as my eyes gloss over with the same brightness of the moon.
And the only thing I could do was lay there in wake and take it because if I move a single muscle, I could break.
And as I lay there with a dead stare waiting for some cool air, I ask god one question:
Why create nightmares?
YOU ARE READING
Words.
PoetryThis is a book I write in to relieve my mind of the horror it creates for itself. Poems or not, they're words. Definitions or examples, they're words. My words. Read it or not, they're my words.
