I’ve made people regret many things.
Also made them realize there’s always a time they should spout me out.
I know it causes pain,
But at times it’s necessary.
I’m used relentlessly
Be it midst chaos or peace .
A fare share of me is
used by the departing souls,
A fare share by broken hearts,
A fare share by friends far gone.
A fare share of me is left unsaid,
Huh, guess silence does my job there.
You should be careful though,
There’s my imposter,
Used by pretentious people,
He’s being used
more often than me these days.
But nonetheless, I get paid,
I get paid for my services.
I’ve got a companion as my earning.
He’s attached to me always.
He’s referred to as ‘feeling’.
I’m ‘Goodbye’, I’m eternal.
I’ll be there for eternity.
Aeons will pass by
But I’ll still be, either the start
Or the end of someone’s pain.
I’m relic of human thoughts,
I’m ‘Goodbye’,
I’m souvenir of pain of berserk world,
I’m ‘Goodbye’.
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I wish I could be…
I wish I could be the coziness of winter
You are so fond of.
I wish I could be the drizzle
You want yourself to get drenched in.
I wish I could be the twilight
You adore to kindled by every morning.
I wish I could be the tempest
You can drive out air of melancholy with.
I wish I could be the goblet of tequila
You gulp down so swiftly.
I wish I could be the vessel
You could pour all your mayhem into.
I wish I could be everything and anything
You ever asked for.
In return I only ask one thing,
In return I only ask one thing,
When I finally succumb to death
I wish for you to become the earth
And wrap me up in yourself.
It’s so presumptuous of me
To ask I guess, isn’t it?
Evenings
I’ve ripped myself off of the cravings I had,
I snuggle myself in quilt of anxiety,
Sipping a cup of coffee,
Which gives off the wisps of self-denial,
While I read ‘It’s Kind of a Funny Story’,
And portray myself as protagonist,
Eventually I end up overthinking things,
When I’m done, I walk up to balcony,
Awaiting the coldest breeze of nostalgia,
That induce the goosebumps of desolation.
Such are my evenings, everyday,
Till I cry myself to sleep.
Transfiguration
My heart is full of fissures,
It is rendered as cold as
The attics of a trivially existing house,
Under the auroral sky
Of a frosty arctic night,
Hard as it is, I am barely able to cling
Onto the life, using merely the warmth
Of the blood, oozing out of my fissured
Heart, this warmth curbed further frostbite.
It is as gloomy as it ever was,
But I’m in an awful lot of content
As I brew this concoction of words,
I ponder,
If the quill knows what it is brewing,
I guess it does know, since I could imagine
The quill transfiguring into needle
And ink into thread,
Just to sew up my fissured Heart.
Rogue Poet 