Where Every Scroll is a New Adventure
All that blood was never pretty,
But they did so love the sound of warhorns,
Perhaps they went into every battlefield thinking,
This time it'll be rubies instead.
I was raised to gobble on harsh words only,
My food pipe has stretched to swallow slanders,
My stomach has a special kind of acid to melt metal;
And my intestines are meant to grind any remaining matter to fine dust.
How to deal with kind words?
Of that, I have no idea.
Are they supposed to loll in my mouth like caramel candy
Or melt like chocolate?
Will the honey sting if it touches my bleeding tongue?
It will be lost between the blood and spit before reaching my stomach anyway.
—Be gentle with me please.
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I lost a bit of you and you lost a bit of me, all in translation.
- reign
I am tired of seeing you in my dreams. I don't want to walk through this memory with the ghost of you again. To see you smile, to see us back underneath the summer sun, is agony. To recall my name, from broken pitches of your last remembered voice, is agony. With that said, again I will wait for you in my dreams tonight.
- reign
The word 'prodigy' never found its way near my name. Yet, all I hear from peers who used to be proud, now concerned, is ' you know too much.' And I ask, and I cry.
Did I fly too close to the sun again, Father? Am I falling?
- reign
It's a poet's inclination. The urge to abandon this domestication and be the gentle beast of the woods. To see curiosity and amazement in the eyes of creatures for once. To have my muse climb trees. To fetch water from roaring streams. I have been civil in my suffering. Now I want to suffer from unusual ailments.
- reign