Ode to the maker

I had my fair shares of mess ups, I have lived in hell and survived to tell the tale through my burn scars. Some men live to tell the tale, some men live the tale and some men live a fairytale. I’m the first kind.
Nothing will ever compare to the dreaded feeling of realising that you are on your own in the entire universe. All the words are nothing but a whisper, save for the breaths you exhale when it dawns upon you that no amount of poetry, coffee, kush…will ever fill the emptiness of the longing you feel for the one who said they will stick around.

When I’m out walking on cold nights like tonight, and the sky is like an inky black pool
above my head, I take comfort in knowing the stars are still there, and the star taking the shine, and those just waiting to shine

As we made our journey in the night, the moon and stars, the dark sky above seemed to be travelling with us and guiding us,
I do not know what awaits us ahead, whether it’s the bright light of the stars and the moon, or the darkness of the night.

The questions in the day are answered in the darkness of the night…where sleeping
dreams awake your mind, giving closed eyes sight.
Failed words, breeding broken promises. Why use words? Why use words if the results don’t heal with meaning? Flipping words end over end, hoping they will land on love.

We never could make this feeling last for a lifetime, instead we can write the pages in our minds. At a time when nothing seemed to
matter, you breeched between life and love.

You are the bridge I could never burn. Your eyes forging a burning trail directly into my desire, for your touch left me breathless and
aching, and the lungs didn’t draw enough all my breaths are fast paced, there is shortness of breath, time breathing down your neck.

You were never wrong: I was never wrong. Together we just weren’t quite right, I may be wrong but my name was m.r Right. We could have been perfect together. The very best.

I don’t know if it comforts or breaks my heart to have found you at all. What could possibly go wrong, between merged emotions.

Heart beats, beating, sinking, laying feelings of love brewed in pure desperation for affection.
Bottled in thoughts sold to sinking of untimely graves dug wistfully to make it in the whiffs of romance. Words that seemed
flowery, but withered before they bloomed.

Today, I sat infront of a peach blossom, teaching me in the art of opening up and knowing that petals falls to make way for a fruit, sweet labour and worthwhile.

Love is now a mystery of the past. Where did we go wrong? When failed words conceived shattered signals?

Love was but a plastic association, a plastic that burned at both ends and my right hand was holding the middle, no matter how hard I ignored it, eventually I was gonna get burned.
I gave. Over it. But these words are burning me, I take the heart that bled pitiful cries, piercing our bond broken to make art ouf this heart.

The sign above the bartender read:

Be patient with the bartender. Even a toilet can only serve one asshole at a time.

Opinions are assholes, I have mine and yours stink.

Aside | This entry was posted in art, fairytale, heart and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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