Downstairs, the party goes on

I look at the sky and how the moonlight swallows me whole

I contemplate how I feel and I decide that I feel hollow

so hollow I can't even feel the thump of my heart

and I think to myself

how can I kill a non existent heart

a heart that is already dead

I hear laughter

downstairs the party goes on.

I hear something, and it's a man

a man whose life lies only in a bottle

his head is full of torment

with the excitement being only the pop and crack that surrounds his mind

and only when he takes a sip do the butterflies fly, high enough to see his life

so his thoughts stop to admire his sight

but when his thoughts jiggle

the bottle hits his head and he bleeds to a certain death

the butterflies never existed

downstairs, the party goes on.

The woman's screech,could be heard from miles around

and yet the champaign couldn't go to waste

as the women filled the room with cheers of laughter

and the clinking of glasses, no one could hear

while she cleansed herself with their laughter gallore

her face full of brightness

I could see the closing light

the butterknife is her knight, gripped tighter every morning

even with me looking at the sky and my back facing the doom

yet my ears perked up from the screams that she bellowed

which echoed in the walls of her mind

never being able to come out, the waves of her voice trapped in

so when the laughter is at the highest peak

she decides to take a peek of her demons inside

while her hand holds the trigger, her mind is free

with a thump her body falls and her thoughts ooze out all mighty and red

they hear the laughter and they think

downstairs, the party goes on.

My tongue sits sound, tasting all the remorse and hunger since days

it comes quick; the bile rises

and all it gets is the bittersweet taste of being choked

and as it lets the liquid flow and drip from the mouth

making me shiver and shake; dying from rumble and rust

I hear nothing, finally the end

downstairs, the party goes on.

What if we are already dead?

dead souls, hollow with vain walking around trying to show betterment

so that when we die, we don't vanquish towards the stairs downstairs

and we write it down on parchments on how we dislike it

sitting atop a burning a ground foolish enough to a heat stronger

residing in hell as we are, wishing and praying not to go back to the place of birth

This is it, this is hell.

where is heaven and what is it?

is it above us? glittering and laughing at us and their so called superiority?

I laugh and i'm sure they heard it

and they must've thought from above,

downstairs the party goes on.

-nn