WEIRDER THAN FICTION

I’m so choked on your silence,
I’m bereaved with your stories.
The ones that own characters,
drunk, dead, stupid or alive.
I’m so choked in your pages.
When clouds aren’t clouds but lies,
weird enough to paint a truth
fiction of what should have been.
Count the pages holding words
count the sins that are near hell
you will find pens that are pregnant.
Ignorant eyes pinched with hurt
laced hearts with thorns close to real.
If I do not put you down,
if I do not write your head,
know you didn’t exist here

Ruddapoet