a poetry collection by
NICKOLAS JOHN ZAKHARIA
© 2017 Nickolas John Zakharia. The author retains sole copyright to his or her contributions to this publication.
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For the silent thinkers.
Note from the Author
As an 18 year old, I am one to believe that not all things result in happy endings, yet there is a sense of beauty in the pain. This collection aims to present the reader with the dark undertones of emotional turmoil in a way that exposes their artistic qualities in regards to raw, human emotion. Further, my own experiences have attributed towards the process of creating these poems as I attempt to draw from what I have felt and encountered. I truly believe that at whatever age, people are able to experience the elements of what are entrenched into the ideas behind my work – which is why I have compiled a collection of poetry that have written from the age of 15 to 18. Welcome to my mind, and welcome to my vision.
No sunlight for my joy;
Reflections as empty as their entities;
So disheartened in bearing the night’s emotion;
You have escaped into the town;
While I remain close to the sky;
Yet beneath your tread;
Oppressed by our fate;
Alone in a high rise with no foundation;
Toppling over the pillars that I have raised;
So worn and decayed;
As I crumble to your absence.
You must have been just another illusion;
Entranced by the lights of the city that don’t turn off;
My skyscraper home needs to block out the light;
Just this once don’t let me fall from my high rise;
To the thoughts of you tonight.
Darkness in my hotel of insanity;
As street lights pierce through the window panes;
With your memories scattered throughout their pollution of fake warmth;
Much like your coy dejection towards my offerings of affection;
As I now reside in solitude.
The silhouette of a single figure in a glass square;
Gazing onwards to where your night has ended;
My tower of thoughts cannot see the horizon;
Only the moon is open to my sorrow;
For I sleep through days without you;
And embellish myself in nights of thought;
Incarcerated by my city’s vista;
Prosperity cannot cure the lonesome.
A lost king with no queen is what remains of me;
For you have left the castle that oversees the world;
Our ruling has crumbled;
But her ashes remain;
And her fires plant themselves amongst the lights;
In a metropolis of promiscuity.
I look down at my burning kingdom;
But I fall to the ground at the sight of you;
Looking up for a glimmer of our past;
Drinking from a half empty bottle;
As lights outside windows blur my mind;
Drifting out of touch with the present;
And into the abyss of the forgotten.
Hidden from a dark reality;
That’s gluttonous in its selfish hunger;
The grimace ways of sickened lies;
Conducting the chords of conflict;
Veins are filled with poisonous fallacies;
As the truth is left to sear in brimstone;
Subjected to a life not chosen;
The wicked have no return.
Sunsets darken upon a lost past;
Their rays mutate into vile regret;
Shouting at the heavens for answers;
Yet fate’s reasons are left untold;
As the skies begin to weep the pain of
what lies beneath them.
Silent weeps of discrete malevolence;
Contoured by a past of deep regret;
Stirring in the night;
As the day neglects the reality;
His dreams morph into a spiraling mirage;
Of what could have been the present;
Yet are ridden in fallacy.
Narcotics do not satisfy his insanity;
As the caffeine no longer can keep him awake;
His eyes begin to clasp shut;
Drowning in tears of detachment and gloom;
A feeling that is as unforgiving as unquestioned.
Determined to escape from what is deemed as the nonsensical;
The canvas of his heart has been forever stained;
With the mark of the possibilities;
That shifted into vague memories;
Memories he relives while alone.
Abandoned from those whom were once by his side;
All that remains is an empty bottle of vodka;
Consumed in his melancholic state;
As the boy suffocates within his own mind;
Creating his own world;
Inside the one that has already doomed him.
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