The melancholy attracts my pen
little by little I start to cry with every word that I strive,
echos of misery wrapped in a bottle
the more I write, the more it heals.
twilight calls me, sipping the happiness
the void that wants to breathe, gets filled by this,
I constrain myself to see the light around
hollow is my heart which just prefers sorrow
the blood in my veins freeze but my fingers do not stop,
my blood becomes my ink and my body a paper in thin
it hurts to scream as the words are let out,
but peace does lie in letting it all go around.
the pleasure doesn’t let me write a phrase,
it seems the moon is full and it misses the emptiness draped over it’s face
my soul craves for some grief, they call me morose
with the lovable petals, thorns do clasp to a rose.
the writer in me wails for it can’t see the letters anymore,
with the fortunate moments, they all have lost their course.
once again I invite darkness to my self,
the Sun of my face wants to suppress and the Moon
wants to dance over the orchid side,
doomed agonies would help me excavate
emotions hidden in the depths of my heart,
bestowing a direction to the ship I have lost,
igniting the empath in me as I start to discard,
the ‘happiness’ recedes midnight sharp,
A writer is born in the dark.