Praying to anyone who will listen, the candle flickers and ignites a pallid, fragile expression,
Huddled around a fireplace,
shimmering upon a broken face,
A face like shattered glass, tears fall from my eyes and reflect upon my past.
A velvet blazer and scuffed up shoes, a lone voice singing the blues.
The black dog is howling outside door, his looming shadow upon my floor, growling and sniffing, never stopping, salivating and persisting.
The hound is relentless, turning me into death’s apprentice.
A soul is forever tormented, even at my piano, my mind remains demented.
I shake beneath my sheets, this mental torture will never cease.
My mind is flooded with self-hatred, my cold, trembling body — wasted and naked.
I once floated upon virescent clouds, insomnia’s unkind hand sweeping and breaking the ground below me.
What a cruel, hellish beast is the curse of eyes aching, muscles twitching, exhaustion biting at heels; a rabid wolf.
Insomnia’s companion - depression with her cold blue touch, ripping my mind into pieces. I am weary, agonised and trapped.
♱ 𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐂𝐎𝐇𝐄𝐍 ♱
Twenty-nine. Gemini. Pathetic excuse for a musician. A troubled poet residing in Whitechapel, London. Smells of old bookshops and red wine. Six foot four. Real life Egon Schiele painting dressed in immaculate monochrome suits. Nobody’s. Nicotine stained, ring wearing fingers. Practically nocturnal. Reluctant to open up about his personal life, but will speak existentialism and nihilism for hours on end. Loyal til death.
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