Self inflicted lonliness

A cure is not required,

when the world is accustomed to hyper sanity,

free me then,

unshackle me from society’s insistence,

that I must breathe like you,

if im accustomed to holding my breath,

and drowning in solitude,

your hyper sanity is hyper sanitised,

and I’m a vagabond of self inflicted loneliness.

W.E.

#poetry

Nightwriter-2

a-vision-in-the-night-4

She wore thick framed glasses and her colour was conviction,

Assured of herself, black, poised, my affliction,

She taps me gently on my fingertips wakes me for inscription,

She knows me well, feeds my addiction.

Wears her prose in balanced meter, long pauses of silence,

At times white noise, piercing violence,

Enamoured with adornments of the highest order, black diamonds,

She knows how to wake me and be my guidance.

Only a lover would know her and how she allures,

She’s divorce material, an obsession with no cure,

She’s the last person my wife would ever conjure,

Her name is The Night, black majestic grandeur.

-W.E.

Raging Love – Just another day

Gifs-for-your-friends-breakup-kill-him-angry-woman

 

 

WARNING: GRAPHIC LANGUAGE


He threw the kitchen knife at her, “Fuck you, what the fuck did I do to you?”

Her eyes red with rage, she swiftly ducked and with a samurai like movement made two steps, grabbed his Biro off the bench and stabbed him in his hand.

“What the fuck?”

“Ironic isn’t it you piece of shit, you throw a knife at me in my kitchen and miss but I stab you with your fucking muse, admit it, you never loved me, you….”

“What on earth are you on about now you psychopath? Whilst you snore I sit counting your breaths for so long that I forget to breathe myself.”

“I snore? You wish I do, you’re probably thinking of your mother, you arse hole.”

“Nope, it’s you sweet piggy,” he ducks a book, “I know it’s you because I don’t give a shit about the fruits in your hair as you smother your eau de parfum of cigarettes in your roots with Estee but I feel the weight of your head get heavier on my outstretched arm and I know the time it takes for you to go from falling asleep, to deep sleep, completely gone because my arm goes from pulsating back against your head to completely dead, lifeless, circulation cut and no pulse. So shove your denial up your arse.”

“You’re so full of it Mr word smith, you could convince the night it’s white and silence it’s loud, you’re the one who falls asleep first. Breath? Huh, I notice how you slow down from your adrenaline filled vein pulsating sprint breathing to a slow rhapsody of puffs. Only then do I know I can curl your body, fashion it as I please to make pillows to arch my body against.”

“Yeah whatever, you love to lie. How could I be pillows if I’m awake before you and you have three alarms on your phone and two on the radio alarm clock blaring at you and your face is still buried in a pillow. You may as well be dead.”

“I’ll kill you if it means I’ll kill myself too you prick! For thirteen years I’ve been struggling to get up to those alarms but, I wake when I hear your voice instantly don’t I you unappreciative low life.”

“Unappreciative? Nah, I see the clothes you lay out for me from the night before, perfectly folded, fabric softener scented and pressed collars, I’m not blind you know”.

“You are blind; as you don’t see that I see the perfect disarrangement of clothes, scattered hallway to shower, forcing me to pick up remnants of your soul, my soul after you’ve left the house. Forcing me to trace your scent down the stairs and to the kitchen, then back out the foyer and to the door where I lose you to the particles of air. I close that door every morning hoping I don’t see you again but I get to the kitchen bench and there you are. You leave behind a heart poured through a silky white Rosetta latte, gold elixir wafting through the air that you made with your own hands and the cups brim still smells like your fragrance. I drink your heart and when I get to the last drop, you serve me divorce papers for eight hours. Eight hours you make me suffer with nothing more than lactose intolerance as a reminder of your painful love you leave lingering in the pit of my stomach.”

“You see that? Really? I see the hardship written in the paragraphs on your forehead as I come back home, I know there’s stories penned there and prose etched in the salt stains on your cheeks waiting for me to read it and you know how much I love to read, but I can’t open your book just yet, not when the garbage bags of my daily dealings needs to be tied up and moved away, away enough for the stench not to offend you or anyone at home. Just give me five minutes to collect my…”

“…Thoughts? Guess what your son did today? Guess what your other son did to his younger brother? Guess what your daughter drew today? Guess what the little one broke today? Guess whose mother died.What do you think about that?”

“Wow, I can’t believe they’re growing so quick, I never knew he had it in him, I always knew she’s an artist, and fuck it, it’s just a vase. I don’t know her mother do I? You know I’ve never been emotional about death, what can I say? But I did miss you.”

“How can you miss me when you don’t notice me?”

“Hah! You’re deluded. I notice, trust me I notice. Like when I smell Narciso Rodriguez top noted with mascara float into the room, I know the kids are asleep, you’ve showered your woes away and got your lingerie on. I know it’s an invitation to shut down for the night and to head to bed. I know that you lay in bed and pretend to go to sleep because you add one more breath than you took the night before, before you fall asleep to see if I am paying attention. I notice you bitch!”

“Fuck you, I love you”.

-W.E.

Crimson Veil

Crimson veil2

Blood and marrow
Under her nails
She hid her secret
Beneath a crimson veil
Devourer of hearts
Emptier of souls
Elated his spirit
Set it to sail

Slayer of mind
Axe murderer of sorts
Intrepid assassin
Hacker of thoughts
Displeased with mediocrity
Bored by the mundane
Satisfied only
By his mort

-ME