Writing poetry for so long doesn’t mean that am good at it but basically that’s what I dream about when the perfectly fine brewing machines at the café while its churring and buzzing to make mocha for my lazy callow soul and it’s wet behind ears and I shed my hair after every chemical I take in .
That’s too long for me as they said I have no much time left. The words drip apart from my hands to finger to paper but still am not contented, I want more, more like every drop, every sodium and chloride knifed apart. I feel like am drowned in an ocean that I see every morning as I walk through the wet sands of grandmother’s hole beach.
Broken shells and shred glasses like a mosaic floor cover some patches created by the waves. Dead fishes and the oil spilt tar sands, dark as chunks of coal all around and the pale white cloudy sky before the sunrise of a wintry morning that I walk past every day.
I pretend too much everything.
Plastic mind and popping eyes of a bullfrog, that cries only on a drizzling day which never happens to be in my land of fist fighters who lost to a glass storm. Cause I ain’t fighting anymore in the ring. I was never in control to fight for a reason that does have an essence for the life I live in and this ain’t Pluto to have a frozen heart that’s too pale enough for my elements to wither and fall back as I give up.
There is something to be changed forever but it never happens, because it’s just the shaggy thoughts of the mankind which he has inherited from his homo ancestors.
Though I have been writing too long, time check, night crossed and the other began silently before I again check my watch. Time defines everything, everything about your memories, from the footprints you left in the sands of the morning beach and to the last thing you remember doing it with your loved priorities.
My home is on fire but I wipe them out with my bare hands, I got burned, I don’t care, I breathe the smoke to be alive and keep me burning. But the way you stalk me is more hurting than anything more like breathing cyanide. But I would keep the fire and would be writing poetry of my kind till I have the sense of emptiness, empty like a copper box, a treasure chest that’s made of copper and is empty and is ready to fill my thoughts that I am alone!
The churring and buzzing stops and my mocha pours into my cup and am walking towards my daily spot.