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.

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: inherited every fib

Grief (ii)

" Death and life are a friend ," the old lesson keeps bludgeoning me. Death ripples through the streams and creeks that flow near the homes that depend on recollections. Each of these bricks used to be housed by fine architectures, now bound by white bands and prayers. On the front porch, the most-welcoming wreath of carnations, which are enveloped by symmetrical stanchions, greets every person that comes through it. And I thought: if death comes near, then life is nothing but sprout of vine reaching its arms to a far cry, and never will it give you time to read every sentence death foretells. In this house, it now gives homage to the days I could remember but never hold. Here, I witness: Candles are as still as my stiff existence, while the quietness of each life in the room screams. The sympathies dress black and how regrets strip my skin. But how could a friend hurt you when they only visit you once? That every gaze to the rectangular—which holds my dear roots—las

Papier-mâché

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