#WritcoPoemPrompt118
I can't express the refreshing sweetness
of seeing my face, who never smiles
Endless highways of misdirected means
To walk along the lonely street of dreams
To live in a world where nothing is as it seems
And take pursuit of pleasure to extremes
I was born to be wild, wild in imagination like those who carve sorrow in silence
I'm broken, but I'm beautiful
And I hope you love my broken heart that I delineate here

I still have proof in forms of scars
But you won't be able to feel what I wrote
These are my hieroglyphs, so it's not obligatory for you to understand them
My scars are camouflaged in stanzas with inexplicable parables
I term my poetry like a cognitive catastrophe
Which flows but comes out by itself
Maybe it's kind of subliminal,
I'm not thinking about what I wrote
I'm not arranging what I wrote
Darling my red lips have found a new obsession with reading all the manuscripts that I made without a plan

I was trapped inside an aura mystery that I created here These are the chaotic consequences of past lesions that I immortalize in letters and words
If I don't heal my wounds then who?
For me, my poetry is a fortitude, fortitude that is lubricated with poetic words
Fortitude is fortune & I'm proud of this—

I string and archive past trauma in my allegories
Maybe my poetry is like wisdom neatly arranged
With vocabulary that is rarely used or with words that are deliberately convoluted—
I love every stanza and paragraph that I write
This is my symbol and healing whose signs are starting to show
Perhaps you will never feel what I write
Not because I failed to be a writer
I purposely made you fail to understand what I wrote

©Uni Nindiani