I sit sharp on the edge of my bench in the dark with a hatchet in my hand to break open my senses & to claim that my pain in the veins is not vain but insane
But I get so mad & a bit sad when I spread metal scraps on myself coz then I bleed the beads so discreet on my crease to decrease the misery
So I feel quite shaky as if my skin is so thin like a leaf & it starts to burn instantly to create the debris that comes out from the heat of the seed
I’m torn at my core that I feel this need to ease & burn my peace into pieces on the street that’s filled with so many deep & some holes unseen
So I scream in infinity with my fluctuating beat coz I can’t simply breathe & it seems I’m the beast hinged to the scene of the shattered dream
I relapse on my screen coz this all feel so diseased when I see this degree of release & then I step explicitly into the bed of fire to become the deceased
But then I focus on to drop my sores with the source of my scope in this hope that one day I’ll for sure end this whole to simply blow everything to the pure
—– The Edge —–
The Edge is quite a different kind of poetry. It’s about my struggles, which I could see on my inner screen. This poem was flowing into me & I’ve written those images in the form of this freestyle poetry. It became so intense, at least in my head, that I’ve recorded it in my voice. This is the first time ever, I’m doing Spoken Word. So bear with me. I think, I’m mostly doing it for me coz it feels right, irrespective of my voice or lines.
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