it is that time again when fatigue and hyperacute memory meet within the folds of my mind,
i hide there
in a drunken state,
a hazy dreamlike place,
where all i can focus on is the steel etching of his jawline.
the winter chill clutches me closer,
the wind thumps against the windowpane
and i, surrounded by it,yet apart,
submerged in the blaring silence of loneliness.
a light passes above me,
a flickering or electricity that will not die out,
then it sleeps
as sleep evades me.
i pull the veil tighter
to asphyxiate myself.
the blue of my bug eyes
so stark in comparison to the blinding darkness of this hour.
the hand passes,
drapes over the edge,
sliding it falls
words i will not speak.
closed curtains to where it may be:
With this poem, in particular, I did a lot of things different stylistically than what you might be used to me doing and I wanted to see if you guys had any theorist as to why you think I did that or just any thoughts in general or questions about it. Thank you for reading and commenting.
” Me and the pen we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”