KILL SOME TIME જ poetry.

signed, lost boy.

solace is not to be taught,
but to engrave; to become
a conscious leader, it is said to
have the scathing mind to
endure consternation and
the downgrade that you will
throw at your own soul.

to become a sorrow sovereign
we must dig at the bottom of
our curves where the wet grass
lay and the weeds crumble under
our flesh, the bleeding comfort of
will that the dictators of our lithe
pasteur, so ignorant, detain.

in a world where a lost boy
loves a found latter, and their
grasps tear like the parchment
drowned in ink. wallowing,
swallowing the hallow history
in which love isn't adorning.

love is the fear that is so
synchronized in unison,
your heart as though a
warning drum in your
eyes that slowly. . fades.

love is the building in which his
wings clip from, in which the shedding
paint of brick and mahogany bite at
his legs to keep him down, and it hurts.

it hurts.

leaves within the deferring bodies
that become so entangled in one,
a fusion of pastel and coals, the beats
like a fitting key into the locked wall
of roadkill and despair.

to be a custom kindness, we only
learn from one, the one that brings
us down even when we're too low
to climb back up. the one that cuts
and toils under our skin, the guilt
of our regrets eating at us until we
are no more.

feeding on our lost mirages and
crumbled hopes, like the notes
you left for everything and everyone
when the building called for your name.

when insomnia cradles you in
the lum night, she does not wipe
your tears, no, but she watches over
your scars and sews the pieces of
yourself that seem so broken that,
"i'm done. i can't fix me anymore."
seems so full of aim that no, im
not done yet.

so perhaps, to live we only
learn from one. and you ?

you are self taught.

ㅡ jge.