*

Come true//

I tell you I hate the indoors

And you cage me in a room

I say I crave the sky

But you only let me out at night

I tell you how much I hate rituals

And you tell me to follow each by heart

I don't like conventional

Yet you are anything but radical

Each thing you do

Is either dictated

Preplanned or decided for you

My free will dies, eachtime I look at you

I try to walk paths I think will run parallel to yours

We never intersect and somehow that never bothered you

I tell you I don't believe in destinies

Yet we are destined to be doomed

I thought I could fight depression

But the biggest weight holding me from living is you

I say I would like to add flowers to the garden

You say you're out of time

So precious time that only counts for you

None for my pursuits

I can only breath borrowed air

I can only wear forgotten bruises

You say you love me

I don't think it is true

Love doesn't mean to be conformed

To your likings

It doesn't mean to put everyone else's happiness except ourselves

It doesn't mean nothing changes in your life

And I have to sacrifice

Everything till my time is due

In this lie of love I wait

Patiently for my reel to end

Make the final appearance

Let the curtains fall

Once and for all

And this pretend play

Ends at a high note

They will say

Oh they loved eachother so

It's true

But that's a thing about

Pathological liars

They make you believe

In happy endings

That never came true

Hiding

Danger greets us

To when we find attachment,

Relationship between me and you

Is that we're both so ignorant.

Story begins with "US" ,

but ends with "I".

How can I run away?

Powers perish me

It's what I used to be.

- t.f.s.

“With such a hell in your heart and your head, how can you live? How can you love?”

— Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

That's wow.

Hopefully -

In seven years I’ll be a different person,

And in my stride

I seem to find

That belief an assertion.

It’s not as if I’m struggling,

To find out who I am.

It’s just that thought of deep unrest is bubbling,

To the surface,

Again.

To be alone cathartic,

Apart from life

A part of life.

To regain my composure,

To ensure I find closure.

There are meanings to these thoughts

These thoughts I feel and hold.

There’s times upon the horizon,

Still yet to be told.

There’s loss upon my path, to radiant perfection.

Wether it be at my hands or through times of inflection.

It’s impossible to feel loss,

Without once having had.

So that’s will be my goal,

A story yet untold.

I’ll collect many more memories, and experiences.

And have myself,

To mould.

The Broken Column (inspired by Frida Kahlo's painting)

Love is part of my body ,

a molecule that I'm taking with me along with my loneliness .

For I stay forever young in

pain ,

I shall give freedom a comeback again .

These ribbons tied around

in a knot around my head ,

my body feels death ,

but my mind doesn't

feel the heavy thread.

In a world that doesn't forgive

I'm my own big relief

between you and me .

A "cripple" can see through shit

more than anything in the world,

even when I'm powerless

I can take a single breath

the way my hands

create the shape of a poem .

-l.i.b.

Hot Love.

Ticklish words ,

like small touch

lays around your neck .

Holding breaths ,

let warmth join in

to let feelings slide in .

-t.f.s.

— You don't need to follow something/ someone because they're pretty. Make yourself prettier than anything else.

Her skin was a diamond

peeled off from society

used for cravings

another light turned

her echo into chaos

and what about

her risky chances

of survival?

She tip toed the edge

of her lungs to breathe ;

the mesmerizing fear

of trying to catch the rain

just lives inside her head ,

it dances in the wrong way

instead of her moving forward

she played in black tiles ,

wondering what's love like

as a complete tragic comedy

that beats in her own mind .

-t.f.s.

The Poet Beyond

I’m sorry I’m not a poet

Though I masquerade; I flow it

My pen moves too often when it is not my hand.

Indeed it is my fingers, but those lines were not my land.

There is a writer, beyond my view.

And they supply me with poems that are new.

I wish to pen, wish to spill

But my mind sits empty, despite my will.

And in moments as such, when I have the need, but not the ink

The Poet beyond my eyes offers me his drink.

And so he lets me steal from him a rhyme or two

In hopes it unlocks one of mine, in time, or a few.

But often I walk away with the whole work, and he knows it.

Because though I may want to be, I’m sorry, I’m not a poet.

Pressure.

Whole deadly dim of glory

flows with dirty air of essence

deeper than thoughts,

surround my chest.

Where are those voices

who scatter our breath,

names falling down,

faces stay the same.

Flashing lights recall,

the depths of spirits

they stroke to dawn.

Losing part of faith,

magnificent gesture

breaks away the silence,

without a cloak,

darkness is dull.

-t.f.s.