Only In My Poetry

 

I crave to write lines

perpetuating the agony of my forgiving keyboard.

 

I crave the sound of it pounding

the heart beatings of thy soul.

 

I crave the honest movements of my fingers,

throwing out the words left

like for a million days

in the shadow of my silence.

 

I crave my soul

imposing mashed thoughts

of a shattered rainbow

to a clean sheet of blank word document.

 

I crave you cradling my loving words

left in vagueness

together with the undefined timeline

of an armful union.

 

I crave myself serving you a plate of my fruit-salad poem

and allowing to taste

the yummy delicacy of my poetry.

 

I crave myself being lullabied

in your cradle of promises

where all I could hear

are the whispers of an embracing paradise.

 

At the end, all I can only afford

is the ultimate waking

by the truthfulness of reality

and all I could see

is only the paradise I try to behold

(like a girl holding her beautiful doll)

in the sub-continents of my wishful poetry.

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2 Comments to “Only In My Poetry”

  1. How beautiful and haunting at the same time. Five stars…

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