In my tongue
order form a magnet
plucking the loins of an ageless wind like eve
to a tree, in the garden of Eden [i: dn]
My body, a breakfast of mutilation
from allegiance, fell to a bittersweet- inhuman feeling
And ah, this get me wondering if self-harm
is an antonym of pleasure
that conjure the guilt
affixed to the locus of my heart.
I’ve ruin my father’s gadget [ru:in. Transitive verb.
knowing that his loyalty won’t stop him from war-ridden me]
in positing of articles and poems
and, as if it sounds like a ‘dream come true ‘,
night after, a blessing in disguise popped in:
a multiple of rejections.
& I couldn’t win a grammy!
This is only but an overripe pain I crave for
over the body my freedom repose;
a three-crown of thorns
& I couldn’t Passover.