By Aryan Kumar
I am fighting against all the prayers.
I move forward to create my paradise,
Because I can’t scream the pain anymore—
There’s an angel on my soul.
I feel her on me, clinging like a sword,
Dragging corpses on this rotten path.
An audience encircles, and words are called,
But I can’t hear anything but the steel of the sword.
“You need to look at what you have.”
“You need to stop her in her sheath.”
“You need to look at that filth.”
You need to stop telling me what to do.
March ahead.
I won’t stop.
I have a feeling inside me.
I won’t just give in, but make the madness mine.
Cuts are drawn from mouths,
Get deeper with every sound.
Blood reverberates on the angel on my soul—
White to red; fluffy to drenched.
The weight of an angel is merciless,
Pushing me—human—to something else.
I can’t take the weight off anymore.
The audience walks away from my sorrow self.