I have been growing hope in your backyard, in secret, lining it silently behind the white petals of petunias and lilies you smell everyday before the sunrays kiss the feet of your grass filled garden. There is so much beauty and serenity dripping down your hazel brown eyes, which cry every night for all the untold myriad losses your bones have braved. You smile like those abandoned flowers, your mother left to wither, after your father's cremation, for they reminded her of his gentle words and kind heart. And the courage in your crimson cheeks expands as you see the sun, rise every morning, tirelessly, blazing all alike. You carry those petals to decorate your hair and your heart, scenting your presence with the golden hope, my hands weaved for you.
I am sorry for punishing you Oh wait, actually I am not, Dare you stare into my eyes And ask why! Because you are a monster who took away my self esteem, that night, when you crept in my bedroom, with a faint tread of your evil feet You tore apart my tunic Digging your dirty fingernails into my bare scarless skin, You shoved a cloth in my mouth, to stop my screams from being heard by the careless humans residing behind the walls of my room. You robbed me of my innocence, my dignity, my sanity, leaving me bereft of emotions and joy, which I once thought were mine.
Am I sorry for punishing you Oh wait! I am actually not Because your abusive hands dried out all my hopes and positivity and made me Silent casualty as You assaulted me, Again and again, Ruthlessly, Cruelly, with a sluttish drunkenness, ruling above your head. My muffled cries broke me into pieces creating deep incurable voids inside my mind and the bruises you gave me on my cheeks throbbed as my salt filled tears hit them. With your every touch I felt the life inside me twist and turn, And at last it was butchered when you left me alone bleeding to death. You robbed me of my innocence, my dignity, my sanity, leaving me with a flaming fire of vengeance, burning my insides.
I am sorry for punishing you, Oh wait, actually I am not, for you deserved your head to be separated from your torso, with the axe and the anger my father gave me, As a family heirloom, Because you tore apart my soul from my body. You! You robbed me of my innocence, my dignity, my sanity, leaving me emptily lying on cold floor And air choking my breaths with the scents of your filthy feet.
I am sorry for killing you Oh no! I'm terribly not Neither for being victim of your vicious deed, Nor for making your inhuman heart bleed. I am sorry for killing you Oh no! I'm terribly not Neither for taking justice into my own hands, Nor for being a woman who'll be forever damned.
My hands are blazing red, is it your blood or my agony.
My naive, young heart, walked on the path of love, and the sun shone brighter, upon the chrysanthemums growing betwixt our proximate souls. My first autumn in love, was like an enchanting poetry, your head rested upon my shoulder, I baked joy filled cakes for you, and you chased me in the woods. I wrote poems adorning your name, you recited sonnets honouring our love, we spoke to the moon, and it's stars, to let our lover know how much we miss them while apart. But as the day ends at the dusk and night at the dawn, our love got smudged in those twilight shades roughly painted over horizon. The ink in my quill dried and formed a sedimentary stone in my throat, Your voice kept echoing in my ears, as my all my gardenias withered, and butterflies found a new abode, leaving me alone on the grave of fireflies flowered with all the unsent letters I wrote in your name.
~ When hearts get shattered and hopes don't matter, Everyone becomes a poet.
Title inspired from a poem called this is not a love poem.
In the dark days, she carries a light in her slightly wrecked wings, flying high above the borders of all the pain my heart has endured, turning the deepest ocean blues into the holy sunset's saffron. Her scent of musk like from the navel of the deer, alluringly draws hope from the rainbows, and the peace spread across her glowing face with the crimson lips, bewitching the seer and wiping the melancholy residing in their hearts. Her heart imprinted by the wolves, and her brave hands kind enough to dress other's wounds before her own. Beguiling metaphors painted in her eyes captivates poets to write sonnets and verses to embellish her transient life with never ending poetic delicacies.
The sky collapsed above my head and all the stars broke and bled white, painting fog in the October's twilight. My heart kept concealed inside the hidden drawer under my writing table along with all the shattered things your forgoing footsteps left behind, started oozing all the crimson pain caused by your irreverence towards my pious affection for my scarred skin.
The metaphors fell out of my poems and all the words broke and bled black, painting bleakness over creamy ceiling. My poetries written above olden paper parchments, laid on my dusty bookshelf trapped inside the labyrinth of cobwebs. Blasphemous wind swept me off my frail feet, reluctant to walk another step, infected with pyrexia and hopelessness, under the dawn, rusted with forlorn presence of affliction and so (deeply) cold.
/pain is reborn inside my healed scars, it must be october, bringing back the unkept promises and incomplete forevers./
Remember that shining moonfull night, with a blanket of stars wrapped above our heads when you brought me flowers and we danced together on some low melodious tunes from your grandfather's gramophone record. In your hazel eyes, I could see a love brimming all over your soul, and it was for me. Your smile was the most beautiful demilune which made your face shine like a firefly. The garden around was decorated with night blooming jasmines, scenting our love with their flourishing fragrance.
/Those were the times I mattered to you. The times, when I looked into your eyes and saw my face shining inside them, because of your presence. The times, I was happy./
But as all beautiful beginnings have a tragic end, so did we. Ours was the story, that novelist wrote in his book, imprinted in golden agonizing fonts. 'Stay' was my favourite word and 'It's time, I must go' were yours. That moment between saying goodbye and leaving seemed to be infinite. My tear stained cheeks, rested upon your shoulder and that was the last sanguine sky we saw together. I held your arm, strongly, not willing to let you go, but you had to, so you did. You turned your back towards my face and didn't look back, as if not looking back meant, you care, and you'll care forever.
/I love you as liars love to lie. I love you as all the mothers love to keep their pain hidden. I love you as I will never see you again and I love you as I'll see you everyday./
Love ain't my genre anymore. This is lame. I love you as ~ inspired by Lemony Snicket
_firefly@_elixir Thank you so much you kind sweet girl. I love it when you read my writeups and embrace how you can relate to it. And I loved it how you pour down the emotions openly in the comment box. You're so special and so important for me ally. Thank you for never ever leaving anything unread ❤
The pain I hide behind the curtain of my smile grows fonder every evening when the dusk steals the light from my sky. A white cresent like chandelier hangs lonely in the dark blueish ceiling above. I stare at it, without blinking my eyes, from the high window on the west wall of my candle lit, lavender fragrant room. I see myself written in the dimly shining stars fathoming constellations, which stare at my drought garden, with hopelessness. I hear my name from the fluttering pages of my yellowed journal. Between those pages, I find a church with broken cupola, flowing with a stream of metaphorical verses called poetry, and I enchant them like prayers. The words seem to be crawling closer, ensnaring me in the endless palpitations of my throbbing heart. Melancholic rhymes crawl under my skin, searing, aching, leaving deep wounds, out of which golden blood oozes out, dripping from my fingertips. My eyes close, slowly and involuntarily, I feel some liquid like substance running down my cheeks, but I let it be. I drown into my dreams, diving deep into poetries, who are still calling my name, and I'm running behind their voice. At last I reach them, I touch them with my shining frail fingertips and they assimilate in my chest, behind my breathless heart. I open my eyes and see the whitewashed walls of my room, stained with my tears and a butterfly caresses my cheek, giving me another day to breathe.
Once when I was young and flower-like, nurtured in my mother's garden, which bloomed with sunflowers, and she bequeathed it to me while she breathed her last, because for her I was always the little golden girl whose hair she combed and festooned with lilies. Today, my photo album tumbled down, from my creaky wooden shelf, and the air filled with the scent of dust, I blew from it's face to open it, I stared down at pictures of me and her, with fainting smiles and giggling eyes, but there was one, with my eyes swollen after crying for hours because my mother was consumed by the darkness, she kept hidden under her side of the bed, for she never battled her demons, and went away veritably scarless. Another one was of the blue sky, tainted with crimson clouds formed with blood evaporated from my wounds gifted by my lovely mother, who left me lurking and finding the spring in the fall, where stale flowers, the ones I planted within the crevices of my broken soul, with a wish to be like my mother, smell like light and stay away from darkness, choked my metaphorless breaths. As I looked myself in the mirror, all my eyes could see was myself, painted with shrieking blackness, my hands broke the stars in the night sky, and my miscarriaged soul lied lifeless on the holy ground of my mother's garden, with wilted flowers and dead butterflies around.
It was quarter past two and I was finding words, scraping the ashen cinders under my rusty fireplace, emanating grey smoke draped in silence poisoned by my breaths. I stared into my heart, adorned with the crown carved out of pain and delicate flowers I beaded together with my frail fingers. The trunk stowed beneath my wounds, opened, revealing bows and arrows, which once I used to protect myself from the cruel world, but those are no longer useful, for I am my own enemy. The air filled with the scent of my decaying soul, entrapped deep within the unburied pasts I carry within my chest. Searching for a tinge of poetry and metaphors, I touched the abandoned art, drawn on the walls of my room and it blacked. I touched the poet's jasmine planted under my window sill and it withered. I touched the cherry little butterfly, fluttering on my gold nib quill and it fainted. I touched my old written poesies and proses and the ink evaporated, leaving both the pages of my journal and my face empty. Scrounging, I found a bundle of unsent letters under my bed, stamped with my tiny cursive signature. Slowly, I untied the knot and found myself hidden between those words, and suddenly there came a strong whip of wind, sweeping and scattering all of my letters, written by my poetic self to my paranoid self. I put my hands on my ears trying to avoid the darkness and loneliness around me, but my eyes dried out crying red (pain), for they wanted this ache to end, forever. Lavenders and lilies grew out of my mouth and as I tried to scream they withered, and kept regrowing, till I watered them with the stars I stole from the sky last night. At last, I took my quill and broke it with my bare hands, bleeding and sobbing, over the loss of my poetry and cremated my whole house out of grief.
/before i learned civility I used to scream ferociously Anytime i wanted/
There is a transparent ocean inside your eyes and a frozen tear on your cheek, that won't melt away for you're made of cold and dolorous flesh in which you stand. The quivering blood running in your veins isn't red, it carries the pigment of fear. Your anxiety sits in the corner, singing you lullabies, to sleep, while you hold it gently and put your head in it's lap for you've never known the address of peace. Your existence is like a wound, that won't heal and you braid a fresh noose, every night, but you fail to leave your body breathless, every time the moonlight falls through your window, wearing the scent of memories, the happy ones, haunting you the most. Breathing anguish, you walk into your garden and witness wilted daisies and their dried brown broken petals, which used to be cheery white in the past days, but those are gone, so is your love for your favourite flowers. You lie there on the bare ground, covered with dead grass, and your eyes heaved under the weight of a hundred days of insomniac nights, in which you drowned in your own tears. Soulless, you stare at the sky, as if looking for a tinge of hope, but you choke on fireflies sent by the heavens to help you, and your muffled voice, remains unheard. The pain struck in your throat, forms a poem, but your hands are too fragile to pick the quill, which your mother gifted you on your last birthday. The poet inside you, died a month back, due to the absence of metaphors in the air you breathed. Since that day, your thoughts went numb, your poems swooshed along the air and your heart broke into a million little pieces. The soil of your garden feels suffocating, eclipsing the canvas of your eyes and they shut slowly, leaving behind your corpse, carved out of agony.
Flowers wither, wither and fall as the autumn begins to be replaced by the mushy winters, who arrives at my doorstep, in a snowy white trail gown, her head decorated with a small tiara of dried brown hibiscus and roses, wearing scents of an old novel, the one about a perfect love story, which travels on the paper, and was written by the author, on a misty rainy evening, while sipping black coffee from his slightly broken ceramic cup, sitting on the large corner window, above his desk, lit with german candles, about his old forgotten love, with a slightly different ending, for his story wasn't so perfect, and it ended with the quote, 'Foundation of all the happiness is pain.' Tonight when I see these falling flailing flowers and gently as the wind whispers to me, of that old love story, I pick my wooden carved quill, the one with a phoenix feather, pierce my left index fingertip, and write a letter, addressed to pain, drenched in my own blood, in a hope that one day, it will all come back to me as happiness, I seal it with my cursive signature, and tenderly tuck it inside the right drawer under my desk, where I keep all my pain and unsent letters, with some dried jasmine flowers, stolen from the cemetery, with my only broken quill and a little glass bottle of my blood.
so this is it? One random evening while you're blabbering to your friends about some things, a notifications does it all. It brings enormous tears of joy while listening to Taylor's august??? How is this even possible. I never thought i wrote good enough for a POD. To all the people here, and especially my beloved friends, couldn't have been here without you. I wish I could tag each one of you. But if you know, you know. I love y'all Thank you @miraquill for this amazing feeling of accomplishment. ❤
Once in a blue moon, happens the eclipse I'm longing for, the one that darkens, the moon and my hope, And I'm digging the old grave of our deep buried memories, because they were the remains of what we were, and who we were. I find myself tracing the silhouette of your peachy beautiful face, with my frail hands, which now long to touch you. I find myself looking at those shiny, hopeful blue eyes, with my hazel ones, which now are blood red, due to tears and insomnia. I find myself hearing the faint voices of our giggling days, with my curvy pale ears, which now are partly dead without the sound of your voice. I find myself saying your name in my every prayer, louder and louder, with these rosy lips and crimson cheeks, which now are silent and have forgotten how to smile. I also find myself here in the reality, brimming with your absence, widening the voids in my soul, with this broken quill in my hand, writing endless poetries in your name.