1:11 am, I am rustling my old, flexible sheets of moist imaginations

Long forgotten, willingly hindered papers of lying words.

My muddy hands shake, bend, and shake again

This was once my territory, the room

Where my mother died;

That window, those curtains, and the eaten wooden table

Were my inspirations, the source of my solitary solace in crowded inventions.

Turning off the shower, my hands look fresh

New, clean and guileless

As if my horrific accomplishment is gone like the November storm.

It is a wintry, freezy, broken night and the girl in front of me

is busy collecting the precious pieces of her frozen tears.

I touch her inane chest; ache fills my bosom

Like the air fits into my lungs.

I remember that little, sunken face used to be

Pretty and those bluish orbs of black oceans it had

Were full of day-hopes and open-eyed nightdreams.

Mother was gone by the time her husband married an uncanny feminine existence

She passed away like the fragile petals of the dandelion,

Floating with her was I, her little princess.

After her, my liquid imagination used to fall from my hands and eyes

Without my premature knowledge.

I let it happen with a sense of oblivion.

Today my soft hands have turned into hard, stony graves

With the cold, stinky blood of that unearthly devilish figure.

My old male parent will be beyond the cloud nine of depression

But, I, the innocent poet will start inking down my journey

From a daughter to a killer.

A/N

Hi, how is this new poetry chapter?

Should I publish more?