Scheherazade
(Because Richard Siken–an absolute mad lad)
Dear Raven,
this isn't a poem about the stories that saved a life.
But maybe it is about nights filled with never ending stories
and maybe also about how restless nights earn me another morning.
Because restlessness means feeling,
and feeling means I'm alive
This is about how I spend nights stringing together the poison you drench me in,
to form constellations that I will never be able to reach.
Or touch.
Or feel.
And
everytime I see them on the roof on my eyelids-so far away from me-I know
a little of the pain Orion felt.
It's about how I'll always look for the ending
How I'll always try to hold the stars while secretly hoping they envelop me instead.
It's about how my nights never end.
And nor do my stories
Because nor do your words
And nor do your words
And nor do your words...
—《♡》—
My pastor thinks that depression is a result of sin. I've never seen anyone more detached from the real world than him.
Missed me? (Who tf am I asking anyway)
YOU ARE READING
My Beloved Raven,
PoetryRavens smell weakness; they wait for you to die, so that they can feed on you. This one's for my raven, who I sometimes love and sometimes hate. You make me feel so many things. You make me human.
