In the streak of light,

I rub the sweetest sour.

It’s tangy, and it lingers.

Not in the beginning,

nor at the end.

It is stuck in the state of middle.

I try to claw it out.

Rolling it onto different texture,

but it remains to be a burning sensation.

One that could be more on ‘morrow.

Once wake up in a room full of sunshine and rainbows;

One blink and those turns into greys and sorrows.

Dangling in the phenomenon of haven—

Few ‘morrow and home has been taken.

It’s never too easy to glide with words and voice thoughts;

Mistakes are inevitable—

Feverish thoughts echo like a caveman.

Intentions are worded skewed and mistaken as foolish.

Strong winds deliver a mighty blow to a growing tree;

Alas, I’m a fool, as falling leaves should never be found in one of my circus—

Had I not indulged in the metaphor, chaos beyond control wouldn’t have been unleashed.

How heartless it seems, but bleeding is not what I want you to feel or think—

It’s the gushing pain I want to send, not a thousand knives juggled as a clown.

I may have gone out and become a catalyst of mischief in the grave.