A POEM FROM THE POCKET OF A POET

A POEM FROM THE POCKET OF A POET 

How heavy do you feel? 

Just reaching out to  PEOPLE , everytime ?

To keep in contact , 

To be the one of their lack ,

Contemplating the soft serenity of never being chosen,

Tired of choosing one after the other,

Tired of dying as a unwatered  flower ,

Stacking  the blood from your  skin and bones ,

Falling on bedsheets, exhausted insane , alone 

Making breakfast  , burning it again,

Eating it , like no one left , and you have friends ,

Do you really have anyone except you ?

To  caress you, when you killed yourself ,

 that night again , bleeding in pain, 

going again the same insane .

do you really want to live , 

or like die , once for all, seeking banishment from this drain ?

The doors are open , again , 

The gateway fires your soul  in crushing rain,

Your mother told you to shut up, again,

But you feel like talking all day , about it , 

I mean does your misery made you the master of your craft ,

Or the talent that you granted from your forefathers, 

During that war , when one was dead and the other one got insane ,

Cloth wrapped around your head , to hide your stains .

Does the art inside you  murdered you or the inspiration for it?

Does the diagnoses sound a little to upfront to reach out ,

How easy are you to reach out ?

Why are you so easy to reach out ?

How often do you sabotage yourself at nights?

How often do you dance alone or cry?

Seizures in the paintbrush, artist dead to paint rushed,

Mutiny in the wild eyes , goes to guilt for nine lives.

Got killed but never replied , 

Perfect love story , never completed , 

Stranded over the other town, smell of indifference , 

So quiet that life went out of  her eyes,

Annoyed by advices, you don`t know about my life , 

Who gave you the right to ignore ?

The apathy speaks louder than the scars that now roar ,

Quest to manifest , breaking everything and timeless friendships,

For a guy, who is worthless , instead .

I mean , aren`t we all so alone ,

That we build cages around us , 

To make us less lonely and vulnerable ,

but do we really need to seek banishment ?

our eyes are dried up ,

 weeping for the same cause, 

tired from the same loss,

writing for the same longing for being loved and being dead?

Nothing in between , do we all expect .

Am I a writer if  I don`t even write whilst weeping ?

Am I a human, If I don`t even feel the apathy of being so alone ?

Am I a woman, if I don`t even feel hurt by the world ?

Am I even poet, if I don`t even feel worthless living this ingenuine  cause ?

Kill me or kill` them , or kill all of us instead , once for all,  

I hate apologies, I hate to expect,

I love to die, I love the idea of merely being dead,

Write me down a love poem ,and shot me on my head .

Break my bone, so I couldn`t read it instead,

Make me blind , and take this bloody heart out of me,

Stab me on my back , for being so soft , instead, 

Assassinate my identity, take this poet out of me , and feed him some sense.

Leeza ~