The pages are as blank as my life.
Dreadful agonizing and tiring.
As blank as my life when it comes to subjects.
Dreams piling on the counter next to the sink,
Like glasses and plates after washing out
And waiting to be dried.
I have tried to speak it all out.
Time flies faster than light across the world.
And blink twice,
I'm late to finish yet another book.
Late to accomplish another dream.
Something is wrong.
With me or with this mother fucking world.
One moment I'm on the top of the world,
Not a word missing out of me.
Spilling out like bullets on fresh flesh.
Burning the papers from the hot ink spitting out.
Fingers flying over the keyboard,
As I finish another book, another story.
No confusion to mishap my overloaded brain.
But you happen…
And I find nothing but words I wish to tell you.
Words I wish I can write and let them out.
Words of such brokenness and happiness.
And they ask me if I can live a full life,
With you by my side.
I haven't wished for something more… Ever.
But it's still February,
And I still have time to fish the words out,
In a poem of a sort,
And hand you the piece of the world I have created.
And watch you as you burn it,
Like every single time, you burnt me.