Posted: August 28, 2014 in Artsy Poetry, Enigmatic Poetry, Existentialism Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,


The ink inside the pen that I use to write love songs to you seems to be lacking
The air in the tires of the vehicle I use to drive our love seems to need filling
The images of the pages in which our story is drawn doesn’t need any publication
The verbalization of such words, whether be for our silence, begs for a connotation.

In the beaches of the island in my head
I wait by the shore and stare at the sea
In the book of words I should’ve said
I’m hooked by the bait reeling me in.

In the spirit of the events that should have occurred
My songs are like a sirens calling to ship and luring
In the depths of these tunnels our walking goes astray
I’m like a dot in the map fighting the X’s marking.

Witnessing up close that the glass in which we were drowning in then is starting to fill up again
With shackles in our ankles, we’ve been celebrating, while the wine turns into water from rain
If we uncover our masks we wear, we undress our flesh and we would be exposed in our nudity
The system keeps track of the lexes we have spoken and now it uses them for the ransoming.

Mark in bolded golden letters the depiction of those sentences you want highlighted
For at times I’m such a dumb reader, I stumble across boring fonts and skip the pages hastily
Copyright the feelings in your heart, before all of your sentiments are being pirated
Copy and paste all the things you have said before, so this defective short novel will end easily.

  1. This is both beautiful and heartbreaking. I love the simple, sweet sadness that resonates in it. I can really relate to the emotions and drive behind the writing of this. I really enjoyed reading this.

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