A juxtaposition of a night out with friends to relationships with a little more commitment.
Inspired by the album Nectar by Joji.
(written in semi-rhythmic verse that hopefully reads like poetry)
TW – panic attacks and anxiety
A sharp metallic clang of vintage fountain pen on crystalline marble soon followed as did shaky breaths and racing thoughts. You see, panic is an easy trap to fall into. All it takes is one stranded memory, a single moments gaze into the abyss of emotion, a fleeting loss of concentration, a lone lull of silence and the spiral begins. There is nothing left to do but to be kinder to yourself, to create a softer reality.
Inspired by Autopsy: Five stages of Grief by Donte Collins
The monotony of boredom made her feel like it was just yesterday that she was shaken awake by the gentle swaying of compartments and the rhythmic “clang” of wheels on the train track. It felt like just yesterday when the elegant calligraphy on a scrap of yellowing paper had written her a life sentence –
“Whatever you do, do not get off this train till the last station”
And that was that. The train just went on and on as it slithered through peaks and valleys, coasted across sea shores and deserts and made the occasional pit stop at barren stations only to pick up pace as soon as someone stepped off.
“We don’t interfere with death. It’s not our’s to decide, after all who are we to hasten it’s domain? Death is kind, death is patient and above all – it is inevitable.”
A wicked glint danced in the heroes eyes, as he bent forward to pluck the dagger out from the dying sidekick. The ruby in the serpent’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
“Your death on the other hand, was necessary. I am simply restoring order to the universe and its almost poetic, no? To be killed by a dead woman’s weapon.”
Inspired by the song – “House Of The Rising Sun” by alt-J
I read the song of achilles (stellar book btw) and immediately thought of writing something with an opposite dynamic.
Its my second, slightly less bad attempt at poetry 🙂
I know we are at the end of the line
Through mascara stained tears
And palms sweaty with panic inducing fear
To you this is my final goodbye
But just know that I am in your corner
Till the end of time
No matter how much we tell ourselves otherwise, even the most spontaneous fall into routines. We go to the places in which we lose the tension in our shoulder, grab the moments when we truly breathe. Before we know it, these glimpses of comfort turn into a routine, a colour shade we paint our footsteps in.