Prena Poetry

love, we have nothing to talk about here,
the future is fucked.
and what our grand ancestors
once thought we would be
now lies in the gutter;
rotting with our own indecisiveness.
it toils with carols in the hands of those
homeless, heartless colonies.
hiding in the cracks of the walls
left by some abusive father.
it lingers, in some vague conversations
of those brutal tongue
that has only kissed a girl named obscurity
and never knew about the magic,
because she broke them
into pieces of absurdism
for the price men like them could never pay.
love, we are no more what we chose to be.
we have got no inherent value
caving in the spaces of our bone.
we are damn soaked in this misery
believing it is love that sugars
the rim of our wine glass.
our dreams are no longer ours,
it lies embroidered somewhere
in the suppressed—outraging thoughts
of some low class poet
wandering inbetween
ache and emptiness and burning flames.
love, hell is right here
dwelling in our own lovely broken hearts.