The poet.

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To the poet,
who wrote his last verse,
unable to feel his own.

To the smile,
once so effortless,
now carved every morning
with a chisel.

To the songs,
he used to sing in the shower,
now a silent memory,

He is looking for inspiration,

discreetly,

desperately,

hopelessly,

but he is surrounded by a masquerade,

of fools acting wise,
and the wise taking pride,
in their wisdom,

of people who have strayed,
far from their own self,
running behind things,
that they don’t want,

And in this chaos,
he awaits a little warmth,
a little hope,
he wants to bare,
his soul naked,
trying to recolor the ideas
that are now faded.

 

 

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Depression.

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Do you look at the stars and feel,

that they are looking back at you?

Judging you?

Do you cry yourself to sleep?

And then you cry more because

You didn’t know why you cried before?

Do you question every gift you get,

every sentiment?

And think, that you don’t deserve a shred?

Then think again, friend!

About the lives you touched, brought a change.

Think about the fits of laughter she had,

when you tightly clutched her finger

in your puny hand.

The times he carried you around on his back,

even when he cramped his leg, 

could hardly stand.

And at last, think about you.

Your dreams, your fire,

one that which people used to admire.

Think.

And remove the grey tint.

The brush and the palette are in your hands.

Regret.

Shimmering in the night,her eyes were wet,

but now looking back,she had no regret.

He shouted,she fret,calling him a bloody castrate.

He hit,she cried.

No love,just a never ending fight.

Drinking all day,he came back late.

As always,in total silence he ate.

Sober or drunk,all he spewed was hate.

She cooked all day,thought of the spark,a date!

But the compliments didn’t come,

even after the tense wait.

He washed,he changed,

then he said”I am going to bed.”

She cried for hours,until her eyes became bloodshot,

red.

A decision so sudden,it had to ruin her life.

She slit his throat in his sleep,deep with a kitchen knife.

He looked at her,blood gushing,the light leaving his eyes,

and all she said was,”I tried. I tried to be a loving wife.”

But now he was dead,his eyes were cold.

Time,she thought,how beautifully it moulds people,

the power it holds.

She took the keys and drove to the hill,

they had met their fate ,though ill.

And when she stood on the cliff’s edge,her eyes were wet.

But looking back now,she didn’t had a single regret.