Personal · Thoughts

Dead Poets

there’s a way to remain
a dead poet is only as dead as his words

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Personal · Thoughts

Railroads and Tell-Tale Scars

 

You may not believe me, but these jagged stripes across my chest are actually tell-tale scars. There was a time in which I could look at them with some amused distance, thinking they looked interesting, like crawling centipedes, or feebly stirring branches, or perhaps desolated railroads. Oh yes, I looked for comfort in all these silly metaphors, for shouldn’t I be grateful that my body, though damaged, is like a train still moving, still advancing?
But over the years I have grown prone to melancholy, the kind that makes me want to sleep in the afternoon and lay awake at night, listening to the city’s familiar cries, a melody of busy traffic, creaking insects and trees stirred by the storm. That’s when these scars, mimicking the abandoned railroads on my heart, start to whisper that I should set them free by letting someone run their gentle fingers over them.

Personal · Thoughts

Ghost Town

After a while you fall in love again, just like your friends predicted.
I’m pretty sure they didn’t mean this.
Memories of awkward silences become I-love-you’s, careless shrugs turn into whispers of I’ll-kill-the-man-who-dares-to-lay-eyes-on-you.
That’s what you get for being drunk in the middle of the day, listening to sad love songs.

Personal · Prose

You Can Sweet Talk Me to Death

whisper to me at night, tell me I should write away my madness, all my insane ramblings
we never spoke of the future, when you’re talking about the future you’re already moving into it, so you can only talk about the future that comes after it and … that’s how black holes are born, baby
boom, void
let me grab you by your beautiful, naked shoulders , lay down my arms, curl up and cry quietly, I want to tear at my clothes and shout that I will not write, I cannot write, I don’t want to write, and you can’t make me…
so I ate your poetry like sweets, cut my teeth on candy hearts
ink blots in my liver, I got hung over on your pretty words
papercuts on my insides and still I’m begging for more, I want you to
poison me harder