Category: poetry

Regular

Oh Sweet Death!

Sing to me for my time is nigh.

Sing to me my final lullaby.

Sing to me until I die.

Sing to me while I leave you to cry.

© Aniket More

Regular

Farewell, Life

The night and it’s calling, a trepidation, the beating of the heart, rising and falling.

My heart, once a temple of salvation, now in ruins.

The end of all and it’s coming, the surge of darkness and it’s becoming.

There is remorse in what I have left behind.

A violent dream and its recurring, rivers of black tears have drowned my sorrow.

I bid farewell to the dearest, the oldest and the truest of my people, a goodbye not in words.

The winds of grief are blowing, reminding me that I can’t wake again.

A stormy night visits my grave but I’m not there, I don’t exist.

© Aniket More

Regular

Darkness Is A Song, Unsung

I surge and begin to fall, distant cries yet they heed no call.

I begin, only to end. My neck, rather broken then bent.

I lie to the gods in the shadows, to mothers that bring us tomorrow.

I follow you six feet under, a victim of torment that never surrenders.

I’m blessed with alchemy and death, a science of mad, like my hand to the blade.

I’m a wound from a war, a memory I abhor.

I’m becoming what I’m not, uncomely and what the demised have sought.

I’m sacrosanct to the dead, the blood soaked truth but sometimes misled.

© Aniket More

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There is nothing left to write Every word has …

There is nothing left to write
Every word has been spoken
Every sentence has been molded
Every story has been told
So how am i supposed to write?

The poems about dancing have been laced together and overdone
The poems about love are cliche and unrelatable for me
The poems about goals and aspirations have given me false hopes
The poems about overcoming anxiety haven’t gotten me out of this room
So how am I supposed to write?

The music I have listened to gave me some inspiration
But it only feels like a sad copy; nothing of my own
The pictures I look at spill ideas to me
But it only lasts a minute, then the picture is gone
So how am i supposed to write?

I look to my everyday life for inspiration
But I spend most of every day in bed, waiting for the pain to surpass
Or maybe I am just lazy and I use my anxiety and depression to hide behind
At this point
I couldn’t tell you which one is happening
So how am I supposed to write?

Writing use to come to me so naturally
Words would just flow into beautiful statements
And those who read them would cry
Now my words are so empty
So why am I still writing?

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Incredible (worth the read)

Incredible (worth the read)

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