It is a new moon again and my heart remains darker than the vast expanse of starless sky. The scent of hope in the air is absent and there is nothing except silence, screaming ferociously in my ears. Hopelessness and agony festers in my blood, where once resided beguiling metaphors which are now lying dead beside the dried lilies I forgot to water. The soul of little girl inside me is hiding behind my writing table since eighteen autumns, for no one ever heard what she felt. The demons named loneliness haunt me till day, for I remain misunderstood and unaccepted. My eyes have never acquainted the sun for I live in a dungeon covered in cobwebs of melancholy that my existence brought me. A poet once visited me and wrote a poem for me and it was filled with piercingly painful tears of his. An artist once visited me to paint me on his canvas but ended up with a jet black colour oddly splashed over it. A yearning lover of mine once visited me and brought me lavender cologne which is till date kept in a wooden box beneath my shabby wardrobe. My fingernails are festooned with dejection and the little butterfly of mine is fluttering for life in the glass jar. It tells me about it's colours drawn from the beautiful rainbow and it yells at me for picking up the quill, for a poet is always born out of a similar kind of throes like mine. I am unknown of what poetry looks like, but she tells me it exactly looks like me.
_firefly // Pain ~ demands to be felt.