Open Air, #2


So regrets are. . .

nothing but blaming one’s self,

nothing but the art of not letting go,

nothing but seeds from the past.

That care not,

does not,

and will not let you go.

Until all Fears,

Tears, Doubt

Blames and Shames

that does love you the most.

Do you want to,

Do you need to,

Do you feed her,

Would you love as the same as before?


Β© oliver a. melendez.

Β© all artworks and poetry by ohms / @rstydhude

@Vb 118. b2.27/ Dhudles

Once a path. . .

was shared, treaded and traveled

time was, space is, thoughts were. . .

never been as much as the same.

Yet when i wanted to think

of regret it has to be the one

who could have been the first one,

I laid my underware on.


Β© oliver a. melendez.

Β© all artworks and poetry by ohms / @rstydhude

@Vb 119. b2.28/ Dhudles


A poem lives in a poet which pen his/hers life in a punch drunken life,

that does not but has little maybe even a percent of a fractioned,

swag, and does ther intersections of the intercourse midway between,

life and loves.


Β© oliver a. melendez

@Vb 130. b2.40 / Dhudles