Tell Me You Will Haunt Me

With those eyes of yours,
Shimmering with desires so foreign,
Tell me you will haunt me.

Breathe my name,
Under the faint murmur of ghostly winds,
And with those trembling lips of yours,
Tell me you will haunt me.

Tell me you will pass through me,
Every fiber of you colliding with my broken soul,
Tell me, even in death,
Just the way you did in living breathes,
Tell me you will haunt me.

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The Man Who Created His Own Purgatory

From an ancestry long forgotten,
Into the land of his own scorched earth,
The one he burned himself,
Behind the mountains of his own terror,
There stands a man.

With his blades high,
And terror storming in his mind,
There he screams.

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And with each swing of the blade,
And with each thrashing of the soul,
And with his splatter of blood,
Swirling in the air from his blade,
He stands, frozen, and yet agile.

There he stands, the man we call
The man who creates his own purgatory,
The man who carves his own heaven,
The man who fuels his own hell.
The man who fights the proverbial truth
Etched in grooves of his palms.

When the dust settles,
There he stands,
Under the sunken sky,
An epitome of you,
And me.

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via Daily Prompt: Talisman


In late wee hours of the night,

Or maybe

The wee early hours of the morning,

I couldn’t be sure, for

It doesn’t hold significance,

I was wondering how it came to be.

There you were,

Next to me,

The radiant heat of your breath

Sending jolts of euphoria,

Sparkling thoughtless,

Yet profound imagery

In my subconscious reality.

Into an ever unending loop I could have gone,

Pondering the beauty of the moment,

You next to me,

But then I realized,

Wondering in my lone castle

Would strip me of priceless moments

With you,

So with a confusing, yet clear mind,

I abandon the thought,

And feel you breathe,

Oblivious to the wee hours

Of late night,

Or maybe early morning hours.


Via Daily Prompt: Invisible

The Fragile Shells of Doubt

Each soul,

Neither man nor woman,

Is held captive

By its self inflicted doubt,


bone that is shattered by

The ever growing doubt,

Ultimately transforms into the bolt,

The bolt by which the door is held in its place,

The door between greatness,

And futile existence.

The barricades of fantasy

Could burn reality,

And desires if they are built

On the ground of anxious thinking.

Instead of water,

The drops of rain feels like needle,

Instigating abrasion of agony,

Only if we strip ourselves,

Only if we empower our doubts.

Only if we incubate in the shells,

The fragile yet unbroken shells of doubts.