Tag: daily writing

They’ve run out of fresh blood to add in the fountain pens

So the paper seas are grudgingly parting right in front of them.

The pages meld and tear, cut open everyone who passes.

Those who own the worthy trees, control the sleepy masses.

Their backpacks are empty but blind trust is all they need.

The system is the system, honest men don’t have to sleep.

Even when the sails catch their blues, they recklessly persevere.

The drifting boat feeds on everyone who dares to come near.

And we observe from the shore, hoping the waves will come,

Hoping the waters will evaporate those who only serve some.

Don’t call us naïve though, we know these paper seas cold –

Their surfaces drown empty pockets and only float in gold.

Yet – their ship keeps sailing, our legs are muddy up to the knees.

The future must be a promising concept when you do as you please.

But they’ve run out of fresh blood to add in their fountain pens

So our scalps are grudgingly parting right in front of them.

They called me back again when I was almost out of the door,

They begged me to look at their stolen pearls for a moment more.

But there is dirt behind their fingernails from all the digging,

The smell of fresh corpses lingering, the gift that keeps on giving.

Their chairs tied themselves to my calves so I couldn’t run away,

Just another nightmare they put me through to keep me awake.

My restless legs danced on hot coals, my hair kept greying.

The dirty palms in their pockets smirked, “You should be staying.”

It must’ve been a week or a month, I can barely remember.

Thoughts chained to the walls, door glued shut until next December.

Even when I regret ever looking back when they yelled my name,

I’ll wrap their pearls around my neck tomorrow, ready to play the game.

The candles swing dangerously close to the crimson sunset,

They sweep away the clouds and leak wax onto lying pamphlets.

Perhaps the chains holding the chandelier will keep them stable

But I’m ready to bet they’ll break this ceiling to turn the tables.

As she watches the horizon, paper seas rise behind her eyes,

Nothing but dead trees below her feet, bruised in paints and dyes.

A single flutter of her lashes could set the whole skyline on fire.

The waters are churning frantically, coughing up worn out tires.

The crisp air holds in its breath, lets her say the words first.

She knows how to shatter a moment like a heavy cloudburst.

“For all the grey stones which I have swallowed and carried,

I curse you to only call me once your tongue is buried.”

And the seas stand back, the candles fade into the westerlies.

The sentences sink into the sun-baked ground with her yesterdays.

Only pitch black voids are left in the sky when she returns home

Ready to paint yet another vivid day leaden and monochrome.

I wrote your number in my favorite book,

Folded it between the yellowing pages.

Only to remember I have to stay in the sun,

Only to remember where my rage is.

But your whispers follow me around sometimes.

They tell me phrases I want to hear.

You chose the darkest night to go silent,

You threw me into the waves from a pier.

Now I still carry this guilt like shackles,

Some days I use it as a carbon steel sword.

It takes all the power that I have gathered

To never kill myself with your words.

If one day my armour finally fails me,

I hope it traps you in unrepayable wages.

I wrote your number in my favorite book,

Burned the covers and ripped the pages.