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Writing Untitled


Amorphous
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[size=1][color=crimson]This is the true name of the poem, litterally. Not because I couldn't think of a name. But this was the name that I felt I should I use. Tell me what you think of it, since it's seriously close to my first poem. Maybe my 5th, I dont keep track. Just read it and reply, that would be nice... if anybody does that is.

[b][u]Untitled[/u][/b]
One day it was all so clear
So clear that it had never passed my mind
It was me that stood on that wharf, me that peered
I only stood, in the fleshy depths of that deathless bind

It was me, me that blinded the hearing, the seeing, it was even the being.
It was myself that felt like there had been nothing. Raging like a scolding storm.
And it was I who felt the nothing that festered up inside, collided, I was leaving.
I couldn?t even feel, my eyes were bleeding. I had nothing of what ruptured up, was it feeling?

It was the weather that day that warmed.
But sitting in the long dark trench, it burned.
Through flesh, blood and bone, so did it burn.
The consequences...
Leaking of time, letting it forever turn.

I prayed towards the ground, the dock, the hell.
My own little purgatory was all that I could tell
That had been placed inside of me.
Ripening, it was me a nobody.

A nobody that lingered in the crystalline seas.
Thinking of what never came to thy.
Blinded in the light, I felt myself fall to the knees.
If they were even mine, I was contorted by the blind.

Heaving, tearing, pulling at my skin.
It was me that let it ooze, all that was fear.
Here I sat on this dock, feeling the striking of the pin.
The fluid that came flowing out, underneath the pain that seared.
I held it, maybe an answer. How was it all so clear?
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