Plaudits

The thing I liked about you was that you were hot.

Not cold.

Not lukewarm,

The thing I liked about you was that you were out of your mind.

Never ninety,

But the full one eighty.

A colossal concoction of fucked up –

Just add water.

I always liked playing with fire.

Fortuitous, fateful flames

kept me fucking warm.

But

Monotonous

Melancholy

Made life

a checklist

– And check this

I lost the parts of me that were strong.

Ergo,

Your ego lit the path

And I had to hitch a ride.

Your words were poisonous

And I

swallowed them?

dutifully,

like pills you had prescribed.

I couldn’t see the Machiavelli

That danced behind your eyes,

Your letters might as well

Have been in Braille,

cause I was blind but

now I see

That your love didn’t exist?

Did I miss it?

Or reject the fucking truth?

In our youth

We make mistakes,

But there’s mistakes and then there’s YOU

You who made me apologise

For being,

Seeing things that others saw,

And ignore

My own voice

Like it was from another planet,

Did you plan it? My abuse?

Or was I a happy accident?

We drank from bottles to throttle pain, I wonder if you remember

The sleepless nights of September, dismembered thoughts, tender embers?

At first

Your words evoked a mist of tears,

Amidst the fears, amidst the smoke

Now I have no violin

To  fucking serenade you home.

I don’t want you to know me

But I won’t let you forget me

Don’t want you to hate me

But you don’t deserve to love me

And through the haze

of midnight gaze,

your name

is bitter on my tongue

I fell young,

Too highly strung

or scared

To make a sound.

I’ll hold my hands up

And admit that I was lost

but now I’m found

If you recognise that line,

It’s fine,

It’s because I fucking stole it

You can judge me – you won’t budge me

I’m done with being sorry.

You never cared about my needs

Only cared about your wants

Guess what? I’ve found my voice now

And it says that you’re a cunt.

I’m almost sorry for my language

I want to express just how I feel

Besides, they’re only words

It’s your fear that makes them real.

And now I sit inside a room

Downing whiskey like it’s water

I glance around this place

for stories, tales to tell my daughters,

But maybe silence is the book,

And apathy the title.

You’re not even worth these words

Cause words can be made powerful,

I’d rather use the silence

To suffocate you, to  negate you,

It’s ironically absurd

  • I’ve noticed –

That the answer is unspoken word

Remind me to note this

Down, to bear in mind

Next time

I write a poem.

Depression is synonymous

with passion

Just depends on your perspective,

Irrespective of your treatment,

I won’t die

with a restorative.

And there I go again,

Stealing words from Newton to the bard,

No writer is original

Cause that would be too hard.

And

I know that you’re still bitter

That I fell not at your feet,

Know your bullshit will be flaunted

You’re daunted

just cause I don’t weep

Or crumble into a corpse,

Instead I morph

Like Franz Kafka’s creation.

But of course, I went off course.

Pause.

Yep, still no remorse

But I’ll accept your plaudit

In due course.

These words that I have spoken

Are like a note inside a bottle

They probably won’t reach you but

Hey, at least I’ve got some closure.

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