Tears streaming on my face and a heart that pounds too much it’s unsafe. My lover, here you come, to rescue me of the long night of this town. This town and it’s crowded places. This town and it’s wrecked up faces. You accompany me and solitude. You hold me and reason me. An angel that sings to me songs that I fathom into thoughts. For you’re life a guardian that protects me. Peering nights, eerie life I held, but you damned me with your presence and bewitched me with your heart’s features. For you only functioned for me and stayed up on my safety. For you protected me and smothered me. To the only person who ever cared, and the only person I despise.
My shadow, my self, my reflection. The only thing that accompanies me in this lofty journey
A journey I speak off and my heart aches
A road I take and can’t replace
The magic I saw, the waves that roared
I was forced into being a storyteller
A storyteller for a place I despise
And I phase I wish I can never repeat
For God put me on this Earth and promised to make me suffer
“With hardships comes Ease”
But with hardships, there is never a tender stream
A place I visited, a places from my memory I must erase
All those nights can be left unsaid
But only because I intend to leave
I intend to forget how I landed on a road I didn’t pick
And now out of all this mess, I comprehend full thoughts
For I fell on a road no one has ever before picked
And that mind that set me to it was mistaken and the mistakes tumbled down on me
What’s wrong with ordinary? It grants you life
Here I’ve been turned into a storyteller I wish I’d never been
The only thing I truly get jealous of is the poems you read but my pen didn’t write. The only time I get jealous is when another writer digs deep down in you and gives you a poem that hurts you on the inside. I get jealous of the words you read, for they have not been written by me and how do I compete? Writing is the only thing that makes me feel complete.
But I’m a writer and I’m in love. The only perfect thing I offer is a pen and some papers. The only thing I want you to feel are my words slicing you up inside. For i have dipped my pen right In my heart to write of your love and your magical parts. For I’ve been writing about you, before I met thy eyes and maybe it’s because I felt you inside.
So my darling don’t I have the right to get jealous of the words your eyes read? And the sentences your mouth completes?
If I can fill you up with only my letters and my aches. Embed you with my torn papers and pencil case, I’ll make sure you’ll never need another writer’s poem to read. But only my art to make you feel complete.
It’s the same strength I admired in you, that destroyed me. It’s the same rain I used to love, that wet me. And it’s the same sun I worship, that blinded me
Those people of the town, they don’t read books
They don’t know what it’s like to be another character just for a few knots.
Those people of the lovely town, they have no music on
They don’t know what it’s like to swim in a melody and drink the lyrics.
The people of that lonely town, they bury love
They can’t experience flying nor even drowning in the sky.
Those people of that town can’t afford to hug
They miss the intertwine of one rib to another.
Those people in my town try to transform me into one of them
But I’m escaping this place, before it’s coffee-black night sky swallows my stars.