the poet in me sleeps
this unfortunate night,
with words
stuck inside sleepless cobwebs
of dancing rhythm;
a twisted concoction
of insanity.
slowly
ink drips...
from the web of my deepest fear;
forming
shapes
in name of a phobia,
as I drink mirthless coffee-
pseudonym
to medicine.
one tick,
three gulps;
still stuck in silky tangles of
a pathetic slow song,
I dive
into abysmal promise
of metaphor less
mundane tomorrow.
YOU ARE READING
Ink Stains
PoesiaA collection of musings from my heart that doesn't stick to a certain genre but mostly writes on heartbreak, depression, sadness, loneliness... of course masked under heavy abstract and metaphorical imageries. It might not be your simple poem to...
