He always believed he was a poet caught in the body of a cynical misfit who had no guts to shout out the words to the world. So, the era of the poet either never begun or was extinguished as soon as it sparked. So in the noisy room where the lead singer was crooning malleable poetry as punk-ass rock he belonged just for an instance.
So this guy wearing a bleached jeans, t-shirt that says “Vagabonds don’t eat breakfast” and with disheveled bed hair was the poet who never lived, one more mosh-pit away from being a hostile punk fan! His hail smile touched his eyes, makes you wanna kiss his upturned lips said the girl who left him for a member of a band he took her to see!
So now you know he has loved if not loved in return but he did love! He had tried writing verses which he thought would go well with the way light touched her auburn hair while she slept. He thought of writing a thousand line ballad highlighting how she smelled her coffee, how she never let go of the song she caught till the day was done! But instead he put those ballads to sleep and rested his lips against the nape of her neck. Now she was gone. He had mourned, now he does not need a third shot of tequila to forget her, she is gone with a flick of his memory’s hand!
So in that darkened room with jeering music with people rocking and gyrating according to the sound that seemed to swallow the air, he sat with a pen the quintessential heart attack inducing punk rock was his word awakening melancholy. He thought to himself to love an existence with the every fiber of his being, with the burning song was the way he loved and it rested so sweetly and addictive against his heart but to be loved back with the same ignited conviction, now there was his drug! So the port at last penned
“My secrets are burning bright and its blue
We’ll find each other through these mazes, I know I see you”
Acknowledgement : Thank you
Viria for that wonderful picture!
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