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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required O August, I feel subtle scents of dandelion days melting, like spring falls of delirious diamonds, while memories of sentimental sapphires flow amidst clouds of colorblind cruelty, revealing how butterflies from the temple of fragmented armors abandoned my spirit at the altar of Ares~ adorned with crushed wings. Tonight, as the sky mirrors rivulets rippling with remnants of my beloved’s violet garden, where wisterias withered away into winds of wretchedness, I remember how our love waned beneath the lilac-scented lace of the lavender moon, as stars veiled their sparkling essence, burning hope into redundant rhymes~ to render my silhouette in shimmering shades of ashes and dust, reverberating with the rose-soaked ruins of a broken romance. I am a breathing corpse, drifting in clandestine chaos, dreaming in distorted dialogues, teetering on the verge of cynical compositions, lost in toxic flames of translated trauma. My intuition makes no mistakes, but my anxiety is a trained liar, consistently leading me into a glowing loop of misleading mantras. There, I serenade infernal tales to the diabolical rhythm of the violin, orchestrated by the Devil in hellish harmony, while my heart longs for a rebirth of an everlasting sunrise, curated in classical cadence, to soothe the satanic scrutinies crawling through these veins, in ill-omened accents. Yet I wonder, as the air and mist intertwine like tender tendrils dancing under tulip twilight, will the cosmos unravel a lyrical lawn of perennial promises, engrossed in frankincense elixirs? Can jewels of midnight release paranoid puppeteers~ manipulating the chaos within my cluttered consciousness? Or am I condemned to sing forever, sentenced to a life of mundane mania? For I need a melody to synchronize vindictive voices obscuring my vision. O dahlia rain of sleepless monsoon, but to forget your soulless symphony, I am now drenched in silence and tears, in need of a muse to paint this pain into pacifying prose. I see no beauty in my brokenness; I can’t feel the petrichor, the warmth of rainbows wrapped in clovers of clemency… Perhaps I am blind, and my empathy has long been dead, but why am I still wanting to feel lunar grace on lonely nights? Happiness is a mythical synonym for treachery, tattooed across my golden skin; a mockery of lemongrass love, as water lilies in my lake of longing weep. So I conclude this in metaphors of magic, written in syllables of splintered serenity, wishing you would rewrite healing~ into the haze of fleeting nirvana. As you read these words, remember, I am not a poet, but a griever, bleeding odes to the sanity I once knew. I am now an unmetered cliché, crying for peace amidst bruised ballads, woven into the blank pages of tomorrow.
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