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Seazy Inkwell Apr 2018
----
Yes officer, they left two weeks ago,
The woman killed herself, is that so?
I don’t know much but
Seeing me by the market, she always said hello
She was pretty but never petty
She’s a lady who ended in a tragedy

Well, you see the husband was rich
He made a fortune in his business
Money, diamonds, roses, rings,
Whatever she wished.

So they were together for a while,
Her body was his fancy,
Her love rooted in the money.
But she was not mean, mind you,
She only cared for the materials
Like a house to shelter in,
Like a car to shield her from the rain,
Like jewelries to make her seem vain.

But how time flies,
The lines dug around the side of her eyes,
Extending underneath her cosmetics,
Wound around her expanding body.

But how love lies,
He was seeing someone else,
Keep exaggerating her faults,
Her ever-growing doubts.
I know, it’s a useless story to tell,
After all we did not want to see her fall.
Her jewels ripped out her neck
Shredded were the silks
And a house left in wreck.

But, sir, I’m truly sorry for her
A someone stripped down to no one
Her life unstrung, her story unsung,
And all her things undone.
I am thinking of writing a short story based on this poem. Any feedback/ advice is welcome. Thanks
  Mar 2018 Seazy Inkwell
Raven
Diseased
soon to be deceased
toxic me
how I failed to belong to you.
Once, I followed the back of your ankles and watched your body walk away from me
though you turned around to hug and kiss the face of
the meek smile that appeared for you.
Lonely travels now
following the empty space that replaces you.
Seazy Inkwell Mar 2018
Isn’t it strange
That the ones who inspire me
Love not poetry.

So shrug when I weave my rhymes,
So nod to sleep as my words chimes,
To them, words are soundless mayhems.

Why not think in sensible terms,
The bridges, the trains, and the spaceship to the moon,
It wasn’t art in the living things,
It’s the mechanism of human beings.

Heed this then.

Metal gears shall fray,
Numbers may betray
Theories rust away before eyes,
The Circle turns to its tail and dies.

Then tangent to my heart,
Where statistics cannot lie,
There once was a me
And once was a you.
I used to destroy my arts/poems, thinking since I made them I can do anything to them as I please. But the art of mine took a life of their own, destroying them is like throttle the life out of some fragile creatures. The guilt hunts me.
I shouldn't buy into the idea that art is useless. This is to eulogize my lost art pieces and lost times.
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