• maleficent_ 31w

    My loneliness drips
    on pages , clotting words with
    crystals of sufferings and exhaustion .
    I don't want to write ,
    I don't want to .
    But do I have another option ?
    Lumps of unfiltered agony slosh around
    in my skull , and they're growing like
    mosses on damp , feeding on everything that's
    inside me .
    My veins are filled with
    gory metaphors and sharp edges of
    all those poems I never wrote .
    They suffocate me , I see black when I open
    my eyes and my
    breath comes out smoky from
    a dying lamp. Fire left behind
    brands my fingertips .
    I write , because that's all I know
    how to do , except looking at my
    barcode shell , and searching for
    another empty patch of skin .
    I write , because I'd suffocate
    to death under the weight of all
    those things waiting to seep out
    from my brain .
    I write , because I either have to
    put the blood in my subconscious ,
    on crinkled pages ,
    or I'd witness myself from a point far away
    bleeding to death .
    I write , because I'd end myself either way .

    - Ruhi

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    Dripping poems