my mind was too engrossed thinking about ideas,
ideas that could entice the whole world
ideas that could instill through the hearts,
but ideas were too turgid and bewailing.
cold wind rushes inside my room
caressing my hair, wrapping my skin assiduously
trying to penetrate my eccentric mind
but the smell of papers seemed redolent the bygone days
that I write with ebullience in my hand.
my pale hands were smeared with inks
my eyes were almost bloodshot not because of tears,
something inside me was wailing,
and waiting to be imploded.
I could have crushed my pen,
and I once again rumpled my paper.
What was this strange feeling?
Am I just exacerbating the situation?
the masterpieces that I used to treasure
are poisons of innocent mind
the once audacious efforts,
happened to be the ultimate traces of my triumphant victory.
words by: cjsanchez