• taetae_ 8w

    poet home alone, bakes nothing other than own heart...

    words like old liquor for delicate palates
    ink like elixir dripping down in the cavernous veins
    shallow lies hang by epiglottis
    obnoxious truth follows labyrinth
    catecholamines rush sustainability

    dark chocolate melts onto my snowfrost tongue
    sour taste buds caught coffee beans
    as if ink is some filter coffee
    solstice marks my birthday as a poet
    as a vagabond seeking home in
    ink, words, coffee, gasoline and petrichor

    chamomile tea calming my nervous breakdown
    ends of my silk cape stitched with golden metaphors
    the best couture I become
    artemis lurking in metropolis claims rights
    for the night poems sulking in fog of twilight

    for now, savouring my grandma's lullabies I live,
    that pass through my dead vocal cords,
    sweet ecstasy to my bruised heart
    vaguely strolling in the backyard full of berries
    and butterflies

    custards softly clutched in my tiny hands,
    melopoeia slithering through my proses,
    broken phrases turn into poems,
    surely does full moon recognise my voice,
    as I feed off the sunshine.