By ananda

A room.
Four walls.
One bed and a cup of coffee.

A chair.
Some air.
One tired clock.

Pick up a soul.
Lock it in a bottle.
Shake it until it vanishes.

Break a heart.
Cut it in two.
Hear its scream.

Block the windows.
Chainned dreams.
Lie on the floor.

Bleed a painting.
Feed the angst.
Pull the trigger of a gun called truth.

Ananda Alves.


Created: Jul 28, 2010

Tags: despair; painting; gun, poetry, truth

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