Writings of a creature
Silk hands conjure specters,
wisps of memory clawing through dusk.
Fingertips etch sigils in dust,
veins pulse with ache and distilled hate.
The air thickens, weighted, restless—
a name nearly spoken.
The figure manifests,
a smile infested,
a mask dawned for a new day.
The labyrinth twists with its walls alive,
etched with fragments of forgotten faces.
The corridors shift,
reshaped by the weight of memories
screeching their way to the surface.
Shadows obscure each turn,
and monsters lurk;
born of heartbreak, despair, and yearning.
They hunt without rest, devouring wishful whispers
that echo through the endless, shifting maze.
What am I, but a drink spilled?
A stepped-on bouquet after a party.
A shredded letter of a broken love.
A stained long-distance memory.
I was supposed to be a flower,
but I was trampled and neglected
by the one who was to take care of me.
What am I, but a cracked glass,
unfit to hold emotions inside?
Too much for myself,
too much for others.
An annoyance.
What is this?
A supposed poem?
But it’s me trashing words,
or am I trashing myself?
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