Where Moths Fly In Silence

This thing that comes upon me
crawling up my skin like a snake
is a feeling I have never known.
Neither does it possess death,
but like my heart, it grows inside of me.

This medium called Art
called Poetry
sends me to the brink of madness
with the words that sprout from the tip of my tongue
to the tips of my fingers stained red.
Leaving me left where mindless moths fly overhead.

Being awaken by the pounding of my head,
ready to spill from the night before.
Death was at it again,
which would solve the problems I’ve been suffering.
But with my breathless, ravished hands
I lend a pen down on paper and
begin to weep.

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One thought on “Where Moths Fly In Silence

  1. The art of poetry is like that really. Think of it as a disease of some sort that many people are immune to but there are those with this disease. Only thing is that this disease makes those infected stronger in mind.

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