rishi_jraman256

i pressed backspace to remove
the actions that i wish
never happened,
all the words i am sorry to have said,
the decisions i regret,
and the people that were a negative influence.

when i was quiet and meek,

every action
met with no consequence,
no reaction.
but the portrait
staring back from the mirror
never lies.
so why was she so
unoticeable?

she’s comforted those who need it;
she’s forced happiness over jealousy;

i crouch within the stories
of those that lived and those that
didn’t.

each an escape to a reality, 
whether famous or untold
whether a figment of imagination,
or a retelling of the truth.

Blades have torn the fabric of his mind,
Have cut his skin and left blood pouring,
But he doesn’t wallow over his misery,
Doesn’t turn to substances to numb pain,
Doesn’t smoke cigarettes, drink alcohol,

you were the “tenth muse,”
the “female Homer,”
the poet whose works’ exquisite writing
matched only her criticism.
the men who said that your songs 
were an expression of your own sinfulness;

she tripped and fell into the abyss.
the claws like
brushstrokes of a pen,
ink-black and serpentine,
latching on her limbs.
her eyes closed;
she was asleep,
but could only see
the backs of her eyelids–