Trapped in Despair (a sonnet)

The cry and sadness met in the same place
Agreed to destroy one's immunity
In this world of sorrow he shalt embrace
His corse down to his soul's insanity

The universe of gent makes nay wondrous
For inside his soul art catastrophes
Feelings w're made for solely perilous
For words transform'd into anastrophes

But my heart whispers, thou art life I owe
Thy ghost creeps mine own spirit down to death
O, ye wraiths were haunting me years ago
Neither life nor death is worth the last breath.

Fearsome to live this life without verses.
For in life, all I had heard were noises.

Comments

IHY

The hatred is piled up, enough to orchestrate a crime and to hide it in nightmarish metaphors. I have imagined you getting piercing through the fragility of the roof of your mouth, until you beg for forgiveness with your really untamed spirit. Perhaps, flaying would be much better, but crying will be reverberated through every corner of your long shattered room, as your annoyingly pleading voice will still be heard. An unforgivable, hell-bent serpentine, you always are, caressing the man’s ego extracting his exhaustion, and me against a fiend in your presence. Such a soft way to demonstrate hell to you— as it was not even a flinch, or a poke. You deserve heaven appearing reverse, so the gods you have known will forbid your salvation.

24?

"Twenty-four seems scary," I tell myself. Sometimes, I tell jokes, or mostly, it was conveniently told, like how a laugh returns and introduces itself as villainous friend, but an enemy is the positivity that takes. It is so much scarier when it visits me: a quicksand brought by faux geniuses, a peeking sock-made puppet, I am a whole drama— a ventriloquist of his own dreams. Delighted by my father's cake: "Happy birthday, son!" I still know how to stay still when everybody sings me one. My Mom gave me bills: Money is an angel. Indeed, for it lets me fly out of the reality— out of reality that everything is still made of infinite loops, as in manmade experiments, and how they can be destroyed by one gentle blow.

Emancipaternal

If I were to talk about a father the arcs of his ears are enough, yet, he would not talk, just like the heavens when you plead, as he is better now: he does not hide in his paternal loop, nor would he ridicule my son I have been hiding. He once knew that what was not written was unprincipled; now, I talk and he pertinaciously listens, unbothered by my pretentious tone. He speaks, but only at night— with his melted heart. I taught him to be more man: now, he would cling to me as if I were a wife who cooks for her. I used to watch him with Mom's self-made perspective; however, sometimes, you really have to switch taste—I still love horror, but not anymore from my father's. After all, he still sees the child in me and the afraid. A father should be called pink and he shall not flinch. Freed from guns and loads, and he shall not be defeated; for he is still, and abandon is not his last name, as I still reweave his first name in my poems. He has been with me: inherite...

Papier-mâché

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