Painkillers

I can start all and every of these poems

and every sentence

with your smile alone.

You ask me what’s worrying me,

what’s trying to downplay the whole thing.

But it hurts less if we deny it, doesn’t it?

It appears as if it only makes sense

when we are doing it right,

so I have been working on it.

 

I have been trying

to be more than just okay.

I have been questioning the heavens

if it has some space for my mind,

for my thoughts,

I have been quizzing with the hell

if it’s ready for me.

 

The poets often write themselves into

deep romance of the words resembling

between

always kiss me and goodnight

to

the stars are pretty tonight.

Sometimes I feel like I have a long way

to go in this safari full of blood and love.

I really have had enough of both.

I have given so much away

but I never keep any for myself.

It flushes my artistic life

with bombardment of you.

It makes me a smoker of madness

and a drinker of sentences made for love.

 

I still break apart,

only to find you again,

probably because I love you

not just that I dramatize that I love you.

Remember the last time?

When everyone was watching me,

and I?

I was looking at you.

But I promise,

I’ll always help you in escaping me.

 

I am really stretching myself to be okay,

I have these little patches and painkillers,

but in truth,

I guess time is much needed.

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