Life is always hurting

Either in form of pain

Presented to you

In a plate of situations

Or happiness rotting

In the vessel of

memories.

×∞ Adin

8 February 2021

I have a preposition, you know how we use they/them for people’s gender they don’t know or dont have? What if, cause that’s plural we use:

Him/his/he

Her/hers/she

Bim/Ber/bee

Not hating, just "they" is plural, so just an alternative I thought of.

Reading my

old poetry,

sometimes I wonder

was that me?

Or was it just

another relateable

quote

from

a stranger's

Instagram?

If we didn’t fight constantly, would we love?

If we could see the other’s view point, would we be at peace?

Knowing the other’s faults, can we not still live together?

Oh for a moment of love, of peace, of happiness

Where we once again find the two of us

Uncaring of the outside world….

I've taken my shelter in the books since I was young and dreamed of adventure. 

Wrote down my thoughts in the alpine abditory, so I could seal them in a far-off land. 

Yet, here's the thing about my story: you'll never see it all.

Yes, you may read the story, the writing in blood-red ink on the wall.

Or feel the quiet beat of my heart within a page. 

Maybe feel the war within, upon the thunderous rage. 

And once the story is over, you'll quietly think to yourself.

'interesting' without a glance and return me to the shelf. 

But I'll tell you when you meet me, if only for a minute or two,

You'll begin to see something different, only given unto you.

For the people, they say, she's an enigma, complicated as a tapestry spun,

but darling, no, I'm just a lot of simple people, all rolled into one.

Where was this within your story? They asked, reasoning that I was an open book.

Just becuase you read my story, I reply, does not mean you got the whole look.

They'll ask, where was this before? I hadn't seen the hidden signs.

I shake my head. Here's the thing, my story is in between the lines.

#poetry #writing #thoughts #lines #paradox #challenge#prose #secret #deepest #books #stories

I'm a serial killer

Murdering myself

Part by part..

First, I lurk in the darkness of misery

To hit my jolly spirit with a rod

Of regrettable history.

Then I take the unconscious physique

To the grounds of weak.

Slowly, quietly, every encounter

Enhancing my skills to sneak.

Uncovering the clothes of deceit,

I see the anatomy of disbelief.

Ignoring the tears of help,

I gag the mouth of truth

With the cloth of fiction as

I just can't stand the screams of myself.

Looking in the eye with no fear,

Raping the sanity

So Hard,

Making it go crazy with discomfort

And after it dies, I assault it again

To erase the traces of purity.

Maybe I'm necrophiliac to depression

Embracing it with all my affection

Or maybe its just the deceased

Calling me for attention.

Later,

Dismembering my emotions

And hiding them in little portions

Is the toughest part of all.

I don't want any witnesses

Especially the ones

With the power to recall.

Occasionally,

I do visit the crime scene

And pay secret homage to the victims

But I can't help but smile

Because all my feelings are gone.

I don't remember

When was the last time

That the hopeful light was shone.

Will you come to save me

After all this confessing

Or will you ignore me

And say, "you're just kidding!"?

Whatever your decision will be

It won't change anything as you see

The heinous murders can never be undone

And that's why I'll always be shunned.

Maybe its written in my fate

That whenever I'll pick up a mirror

All I will ever see is a sinful serial killer.

×∞ Adin

9 October 2020

The pale sun slipping behind a veil of haze

The chittering of birds fading to a silent void

A cold breeze carrying away the warmth, leaving ice in its wake.

The chill settles in my cells, burrows in deep, claiming my heat

Setting off a dull ache that caresses my bones in tender apathy

Singing a languid song of summer’s end, the coming of eternal snow.

As one last glow of orange light ignites the horizon,

My soul rests in the feathered bosom of welcoming frost.

A blanket of amaranthine gray creeps overhead, gently smothering,

And my willing heart answers the call, eyes wearily closing, breath softly subsiding, Stillness reigning, as I sink into a long winter’s sleep, never again to rise.

Everything is fine.

(We're coasting. We followed the path that was clear, ignoring the poking brambles that were only held back by a little bit of hope and a little bit of will. They sprang loose one by one. Those times we couldn't work together toward a goal, and those times we couldn't agree on the goal. Those times he boldy stated what he knew about me - but was wrong. The time I birthed a baby and couldn't tell he was in the room. The times he was inattentive and the times he gave attention I didn't want. The times I was silent. The times I wasn't silent but found my communication didn't land. The times I wasn't silent but found I couldn't communicate anymore. The times we go over and over all these times and don't feel any different. He carries a torch lit by so many right words, I pretend they might burn away the dead, damaged parts to make way for new growth. We are companions, partners, parents, and liars.)

It’s a small apartment bedroom. The door has been kicked open, and the lock is broken. Presumably, the door was locked. Now, it is hanging askew against the wall.

To the left side of the room, right after entering the room, there is a relatively large wooden dresser. To the front there is a small space that leads to the wooden bedside table. There are no items found on the surface of either the dresser or the bedside table.

To the left of the table, there is a single bed. The blood-spattered white sheets are tangled, and a corpse is propped against the corner of the wall.

His black hair is matted to his face, his eyes still open. Blood has dried across his nose and the lower part of his face, after having poured from the bullet wound in the space between his eyes.

The floor is covered with a carpet. A few muddy boot prints are smudged in, but they stop right next to the bed, close to the bedside table. There are no prints of the intruder exiting out the door again.