— a poem of potpourris.

Glasslike

Some things buried deep needs to stay that way.

Photo by Ahmad Odeh on Unsplash

Why do I endlessly haunt
my jaded, weary mind
with what I’m most certain
won’t ever come true?

The doors have long been shut
with you holding both
her hands and the key.

Why won’t I stop our waltz
even after I realize
I’ve been dancing on my own;
without anything to clinch?

Holding the air close and tight,
with both arms extended forward;
I stand and stare before the zilch.

When will I cease
unveiling those that‘d lacerate,
penetrate, and mutilate!
My mind and soul to bits.

The last thing I want to do
as much as this won’t buy you
is to be drained of my own blood;
only to be see-through.