'That's one good fucking poem'
Yet, my visage remains forlorn.
I agree. They are true. I have to.
If not, I'll drown too deep in the blue.
'Write more,' or 'You should publish them.'
Done that, done that. I swear, they're my anthem.
My artistic expression; of symbols and rhymes.
But I'm afraid I was never a poet; only a mime.
One who doesn't know when to stop.
One who jams with the joykilling bop.
One who rids the 'joy' in a 'joyride'
One who can only nod and abide.
I once Googled; it's a coping mechanism.
At this point, it's my own emotional sadism.
A schadenfraude of my existentialist knowledge
in the midst of this ongoing Russian roulette.
But the barrel of this gun, it's empty. I think.
So when I shoot myself, I will die of nothing.
A life wasted, a death meaningless. I think.
At least, I think, it is enough; it's something.
It should be something.
It has to be something.
YOU ARE READING
The Core I Orbit - (a poem anthology)
Poetry❝ I'm a man of an overthinker, but an overdoer have I been seldom So when the pulsars spin no more, the warmth of the fire turns infernal ❞ ========== I hereby declare the little unvoiced thoughts sizzling inside my head verbatim one may call as a f...
