Poetry

What is poetry, if not a string of syllables,

From my parched tongue,

Sown together into a garland of withered, melancholic flowers.

The inkpot spills over the leaves of my old diary,

Leaving yellow-ochre stains of sulfuric acid,

Reminiscent of my semi-healed scars.

\What is poetry, if not a shrine of my rotten organs,

Turning all shades of purple, red, and black,

With a putrid smell of rigor mortis.

The air reeks of my rotting, half-dead cadaver,

As my shattered hopes render my entrails numb,

And I stand in front of a mirror, adorning my scars with fresh flowers,

For the old ones keep withering away, like my hollow insides.

What is poetry, if not an attempt of adding a ray of sunlight,

Into the dark alleyway, of my nightmares,

As my demons hold me into the darkness.

I stay still in my bed, at night,

Trying to deafen the screams in my head,

Whilst counting fractions of each second,

Waiting for the sun to rise.

What is poetry, if not a spew of dried out blood,

Churned with a spectrum of emotions,

Left unexpressed, as my tongue is parched and numb.

I clench my fists, and take a deep breath,

1, 2, 3, inhale

1, 2, 3, exhale

I repeat this ritual, till my heart stops feeling like it would implode,

Spewing acids, to rot my insides.