And the armour we wear for the fight Made my demons crave mercy In this unholy night
The patriarch work done The filthy dirty hands full of guilt; He still walks Barnes & Noble He still; follow the grief Given by the dead Those who fawned abandonment onto him Those, who never cared.
And the blades We brought for the fight; Were forged with my words, Were delicately cursed.
My pen is a sugary nightmare in per sé See if you can loathe the words you see; Or are you worthy enough to afford my hate.
My rivalries found a sword To break these blades of mine, They were all mine! Shepherds, Oakwood & crescent lines.
Found, O' the treacherous part of your deed, Why you were being nice to me, Hurting me all along Was part of your plan indeed.
Stop me from calling my demons To destroy your existence, See if your chivalrous glance Holds a stand against me.
I am not the gal Who'll be shredding nightmares into my journals. I am not that existence Who'll speak to you with no pretence My words, dear lover They speak out of your budget these days.
O' my dear solicitor The silhouettes you are so fond of liking The night you imagined them in your lover The act which should be called mighty, Considering how you've changed You, your self and this maze The pretentious act of kindness The homicidal look of loathing.
Hover around my neck To see if I'll give a damn, Stand beside my rivalries That's the crazy thing, innit?
Then even at the last time, I call those demons off, I shut down my unspeakable words I'll not use the accent you can't afford I'll ditch this town only for your remorse.
And when she was dying, she wrote poetries about boys, the trees she sat beneath and the life that was ought to begin. -----------------------------------------------------
//IRONIES OF KYREILLE POETRY FORM//
Saw you in an elite row Of those with their respective foes
Standing & breathing Murmuring about Existence
The craving I can feel in that black jacket To perform a massacre of broken hearts.
The Kyreille Art Lining in the poetries And the Elizabeth Barett style in your sonnets What else you think was gonna happen Rather than leaving thousands of lovers massacred in their beds.
Kiss it Off me. Your Black Jacket Your reminisce of existence And your glee.
As I can't afford to be in an elite row As I am not one of your foe.
Yet you can say I'm one of the nyctophila Just like the cigarette you hold between your lips I'll be the definition of your last kiss. I know you're known by many But you'll be the last person in my mind That will ever be missed.
Wait my darling our time is yet to come to meet I still have to summon my three other spirits
So you're again walking on that line The one which can drown you into miseries The one which can protect making you mine
I owe two pennies To your existence The door is painted blue Which represents my vengeance.
Here you are, Looking for redemption I water my plants with destruction Did I forget to mention?
Let's bring our K-A-L-E-I-D-O-S-C-O-P-E To see the Irony To see the hues Our lives have built.
Any piece I'm missing? Or are they still in my past lover's hearts Which will die when they will?
And as now we've cast the spells of abandonment on ourselves, I think we should start craving ourselves. The silver lining I always hated on that back dress, the way I burned it into ashes and the way I still long for the destruction so that I can feel alive again.
There's no cool in being mentally ill. My nose weren't helping me to breathe Past through the mental breakdowns So I tried the gills.
I had to drown myself deep in water so that I can test my gills. I kept in drowning till I realize I was still mentally ill.
Cigarettes helping me a lot lately. I think it's a smoke I'm breathing or the delusion that I'm yet to live. It's somewhere the compulsion of the cigarette in my hands that I can still be alive or the illusion that I'm not dead yet.
Craving for nothing has eaten me from within. My British poetries just became a charade indeed.
I need the cravings to satisfy, to loathe myself in fears of glee & cry. I have a thing for lost souls on this earth. The ones who are unloved. The ones who are untouched. So I end up giving a part of me so that they can sip Le fula's green tea. So that they don't have to fade themselves in cigarettes.
Indeed I am a long gone damned soul. The words that were spoken to me once rely on my existence no more