“There is no water here, young man.
I see your thirst and the hunger in your eyes,
but one glance at you, and I know you’ll never be satisfied.
Look elsewhere,” so said the innkeeper.
What I hunger for, what I crave,
what robs me of my sleep
and invades my dreams like Beelzebub’s demons,
is something that will destroy my emptiness.
I was born with a hole in my chest,
cursing me to have a wretched life,
full of unsatiated desires
and dreams that fall from the heavens on broken wings.
No fire can burn away void–
I have burns on my chest and a hole
where my terrible heart beats
the rhythm to a lonely quest.
No waters can soothe my aching throat;
I was born to have a dry tongue
and I was born to crave a liquid
that will never be enough.
There is no air that can purify me,
that can bless me with completeness.
I am destined to breathe foul air
and choke on my own words.
I was born to dream,
and dream I do.
Hellish specters haunt me at night,
reminding me of my own affliction.
Each night, I walk into a field of white flowers.
I might even call the scenery beautiful,
if not for the blood gushing out of my chest,
turning all the flowers a deep red.
The flowers open tiny mouths,
revealing disturbingly human teeth,
Their voices are shrill,
and together, they cry in a cacophony.
“You will never be whole!
You will bleed, comforted by no one,
until you fade away completely.”
I always wake up, screaming, despising their prophecy.
Each day, I go out and look for something
that will make me feel whole.
Each night, I am told it will never happen
by impish little flowers from Hell.
Life is Poetry 