Plunge the cold nerveless steel of a blade into the heart of the page
Feel whatever you thought you couldn’t take, throb in the final day,
The fate created by wounded words displayed, staggers at the loss of age,
Attempts that once seemed brave, expressions of foolish love untamed,
Are now the blame that bleeds scarlet and has me wishing I’d never claimed.
Every sentence constructed was a spell that was cast, but the meaning was hardly,
With fingertips stained harshly there is no more innocence in this body,
I’m partly what I have written, the rest of me swept under the carpet
From there fantastic dreams have started, casting shadows in darkness,
My tears can’t be dried by my open hands: that would surely disturb the calmness.
The lovers have tried in earnest to understand, hoping to escape a life so bland
The admirers too have read what they can, travelling joyously to forbidden lands,
I give a gland for every paragraph they see and use in their own plans,
A tremendous sting for every taken chance whether bad or for advance,
I feel it like a breath taken back: I feel it like the questions I failed to ask.
What the words sometimes seem to lack, manifests as fears, real and exact,
For once they are out there intentions cannot lapse: white pages have no cracks,
Feelings and thoughts are divided by a gap, unable to describe each other as fact,
Whenever I reveal either without watchfulness, my energies are zapped,
And like a thief I soon forget what I owe, taking everything as a personal attack.
You would think that what each poem has told has some romantic relevance to hold,
At least in the mind or the soul of my existence that scarily unfolds,
But by the evidence and indifference of those who read me awkwardly exposed,
Everything that I supposed matters little when fantasies start to grow mould,
So the next time I have something hearty to say, I’ll start by killing a poem…