Soul and Wounds

Spilled inks on paper by 'Em'. || IG - @_ethereal.string_

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Innumerable hope and melancholy.

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Everything is possible and not possible. So I keep my soul streched to infinite possibilities there to exist, and in one of them I am happy.

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Everything is possible and not possible. So I keep my soul streched to infinite possibilities there to exist, and in one of them I am happy.

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You are poison of my mind,

In an anticipation of you

I would be ready,

to lose every bit of sanity,

yet again.

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Darling, Let me carve your heart as a twin to mine.

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Lost Time

And suddenly, you're grieving the years, months, weeks, and days that went past you, and what you did in those days, you can't remember for the life of you.

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Can't tell if the world is falling down or I am.

Can't get my soul out this mélange.

Tell me where the true sunshine pours

Where the fairytale begins — I'lI bathe my sins.

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It's temporary, just 5 more minutes.

We negotiated with our soul, when we walked extra 5 miles in those extra 5 minutes

towards to doom of our souls

"It's nothing. They do not affect me" saying that we took the throbbing life inside of us, and throw it away.

When it was never searched, nothing was left in the lost and found.

We made a makeshift heart,

And repaired the life, laughter and warmth

With the cold black stone.

Five more minutes, I am having a dream

We ruined, who was to blame, we ruined each other, human to human.

(being) said that, we never woke up from the dream.

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A fever dream.

Blending in — makes me collapse.

My blood turns blue

Your eyes turn red.

Are we too far gone

To come back

Once again

To

The fever dream.

Essem via ethereal string

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Don't make me dream of a fever dream.

The fever runs hot,

blood too cold.

The bed's empty

My heart's taking an ethanol bath.

Essem via ethereal string

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You can feel it in every crack of your bones

When you are stuck in place

No one can read your minds

Or words.

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What does poetry feel, except blood running dry

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It is raw emotion ; the poetry.

That's how I know, ''it’s a poem". It feels like,

a cut wide open,

for everyone to gaze and taste

Like a feast.

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Your art ; it only has to make sense to you

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The death, the beauty, the horror. The sickness, the era, the mute grief of life, What use of it, this life Only to go back When the call comes on a lonely night.

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I wait as waves crashes beneath my bones

I wait for your return, my love, my soul

I watch Blue Waters taking my faith away, and yet I wait for your return

I look at the wide open view of sky and ocean

Only to find your face in clouds and waves. Death, death has taken you.

And I've become him since then.