Illusion

what a cold star i would make. — 	seven word poem // r.i.d (via inkskinned)

In the hush moments of orange silence
A war between scissors and wet lips occur
where this smoke burns my tongue and vapours of half abstraction arise
A deluge of storms and black skins float, black is favourite.
Between lights and array of point blank, something goes missing
Between my white thigh and quarantine of delusions, my toothaches
A series of corpse surround my waistline, delphic view of sorrows drip
smoke burns the truth, I spill the scars like a needle piercing my susceptible skins,
A burning wall of benumbing silence churns inside my mouth.
Vexation, annihilation, perception.
And the rest is all illusion.


©My Valiant Soul

Catharsis

Image result for pain art

I have selfish bruises on my white index finger,

Quisling pack of cigarettes yet my favourite lover,

I have pain carved around my parched mouth,

Thorns and roses bloom in my inner thigh

I have seen death with open eye

An extension of chewed electrons of despair

assiduous diamond of shaved flower,

This moment is death, this moment is an Odious ball of catharsis.

©My Valiant Soul