How many person inside
names, invariably vacillating
in different shades of brown
it's not this black spiced rum
Every touch corrupts my being
violence and justice
have both carved with bloody ink
deeply in my tormented mind
traumas change to behaviors
Can't you see this body
in a submarine room of ashes
empty bottles and full glasses
celebrating another instant pic
How many person I've been
names, as many as I met
in different shades of yellow
I cried more days than nights
Every memory scratches my being
love and pain
have tasted both spiced in my lips
deeply to not get dressed
by regrets and by nightmares
Can't you see this eyes
invariably vacillating from pain
to pain while strolling around
empty streets, am I existing?
YOU ARE READING
Red wine, black ink.
PuisiI write during the nights in which insomnia hits my soul. Poems steal my words and make sadness touchable.
