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lips are sealed mute poetry by scottshak

Mute

What’s wrong if I spill myself out? I die tomorrow, don’t you know? Maybe you have all the time in the world, Maybe I am running out, And you have no idea how, But each passing breath is a goodbye From this cold world. And

fighting art

Fortune

Two men were fighting, So I put a ring around them, And bet on them As people paid To see who would win – I made a fortune.

Ben Zank photography for Scottshak poem no crossing

No Crossing

You have your life, I have mine, Why mess things up? Let us be Where we are. We are seamless now, We might seem less then, When we tie our threads, And end up in a knot. When hearts collide, No one survives, Don’t you

i am a monster poem

Monster

You aren’t so close to me That I start whispering secrets In your ears, These secrets are afraid of distance, And if you were near I would be talking to your eyes More than to your ears, I might slip them down your lips, And

the faceless art for scottshak's poem the false protagonist

The False Protagonist

Maybe I read too much In my wilted time, And crumble when I don’t find You, in my pages. Red eyes scour you, Like you were written In there somewhere By my favourite¬†author. Your mere mention Thrills me so, That every face Is the one

image for my player poem by scottshak

My Player

You take out the best in me Then play with it for hours, Fumble me in your fingertips, Poke me with your fun, Hold me so tight That I fear not slipping, But being toyed with For too long. I am written in dust, But

a person in a dark room photography for pitch black

Pitch Black

So I walk into this room and it is painted in black. All the four walls, written in pitch darkness. For a second, I felt as if I have stepped into the night. But there were no stars or moon inside. Just a charcoal story

corpse a musing by scottshak

Corpse

I don’t rule out your possibility, never have. All the things they say about fate, gives me butterflies knowing how mysteriously I have been picked up and placed on a foreign land as if I were some part of a big plan, that I had

broken eggs chicken poultry image

Poultry

My, my! What a life! What a life! Bred to breathe A moment, It passes by In a shuteye, And then I realize I am picked up To be ground In a machine Yet again; Did I not just die? Why repeat the cycle again,

spokesman poetry by scottshak

Spokesman

Don’t link people with me, I represent none But one, That’s me, You see, I am my own spokesman, Who speaks words, Which sing of birds With a curse To never fulfill each other, I am a murder Of hopes, On the ropes Of defeat,