“People call them the blessed. They on the other hand like to refer to themselves as society’s much needed curse.”
Upon a thoughtful outreach to their mind’s eye, they like to entertain the bleeding thoughts, the interceding emotions & more so the dying feels.
It is a sea of horrific bugs making way to their minds curving off ridges in their delicate minds’ skins.
They arch their backs in pain & stretch their arms out,
Not seeking aid,
But hoping their ink doesn’t fade.
Pens strive to replicate the feather’s duty as they draw ink from their host’s existence drawing lines and curves, on papers that deem themselves better than scrolls and tablets, thus the birth of letters that curve words in to lines.
Lines meant to mirror realities but instead misconstrue the same are what overshadow the whole scenery making hyperbole out of the whole situation.
A mere hi is transformed in to a mimic relationship,
A heartbreak is conformed in to a catastrophe and their existence is curved on to heart stones,
For some, this would be fixed by a couple rolls of stone,
For others, their minds transgress to a form of stone.
Walukana.
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