What's inside a poet's bag?

i. a starving monster. it's rigid crimson in the ocean of pulsating blue. a godless little thing on a sunday afternoon, so full of despair and an unholy appetite.

ii. an ancient tongue made of poison and treachery — no mercy, no cure. it drips at midnight for all the sinners to lick off the traces of some forgotten curse.

iii. a regular sized muse hunting quill and an old parchment stained with grief stricken blood.

iv. a perforated heart and a meathook to hang it by the mantel. one pair of rusty shackles to chain it to its maggot existence.

v. a vial full of salted river — extracted from the frozen veins of the poet's amygdala. kept with utmost care to wash off all the scream trapped inside the blueprint of a non existent home. 

vi. broken bones and blackened marrow to build a mighty hecatomb, for death is just another black liquorice served on a subzero platter. 

vii. secondhand happiness borrowed from a love forsaken eternity. piles of ashened letters to bury the smoldering evidence.

viii. a twisted gut to cater all the cannibals nibbling on regurgitated ink. 

ix. a cracked mirror facing a forlorn soul, the colour of an onyx storm. a gaping mouth to swallow every half chewed misery. 

x. a bolus of rage and grief to fuel the poet's static heart. for when the poet awakens to mourn the world, it’s almost always how an apocalypse starts. 

what's inside a poet's bag?

a bottomless pit housing a mortal god.