I’m in the middle.
I’m hanging like the burnt ash of my cigarettes I haven’t flicked.
In the middle of an October,
Scribbling at midnight.

In the middle of a thought, I’m yet to write.
I’m like a broken window glass with cracks painted like scars;
That are yet to bleed.
I spill out the words that hang off like a waterfall from my fingernails.

But i stop, midway between an idea building up like vomit and an almost sleep.
It’s exactly 3 am
And I see a dream in the middle of those devilish sixty seconds of existence.
The walls in my mind are clustered
With sticky notes and graffiti
Drawn overtime

The walls,
Now half varnished,
Try to call me back,
In that same old place,
But I can’t move,
In the middle of a mainstream cramp and a healing wound.

A part of grey and a part of blue,
That still is in a constant search,
Of you.
But damn it.

I don’t care,
As my mind and heart are in a middle,
Of a duel,
Where I don’t find myself anymore.

But what’s the point,
These verses don’t even make sense,
Like the chocolate, I gulped at 4:32 am,
Just a minute ago.

I want to scream,
Not for vengeance,
But just to see,
If I can speak anymore…

‘Coz now half of my ink has found its abode,
And I’ll let the other half remain,
In the middle of nowhere,
Waiting just like me,
To be etched into words,
To become poetry.

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