DEATH OF (IM)PERISHABLE BOND, BIRTH OF A PAINTER POET
In the midnight of choked September, I picked a rather rugged paintbrush, To stroke the deceptive autumn you reciprocated For the springs I grew on your bare heart, When you were a crippled vagabond, Fighting to break the presumption of your penumbra existence.
The brush soaked in the countless minutes of our broken archaic tales, the 'bruised expectations' Of a 'forever camaraderie', the 'melting sunset' shading the night of betrayal To paint the silent yet troubled emotions.
But alas, Cataclasymic pigmentation is all that it's bristles had, Which made my painting An allegorical strangulated version Of Frida Kahlo's 'A broken column' That screams of untamed desolation irking my happiest dream Which tingles my verbosity And ties it to a clinical winter, Whose melting floes finally give birth to a rather shy and infringed poet Who finds her soul mate in poetry.
Wrote something after a long time. Please share your honest feedbacks.
Reference behind writing this piece :- People often term themselves as spiritual but they always judge people on the basis of appearance, their financial status and all the other materialistic things. Therefor this piece f they feel free to judge others then they should also feel free to be judged for their mentality coz spirituality teaches us equality and neutrality not judgemental quality. #monostich#wod
The rain that soaks the sorrow of land, also promotes the sorrow of man and sings a ballad of elegies to glorify the separation of forever in its dulcet rhymes to rectify our vision of its connotative powers in life.
I wish I could tell you that , I have a hippocampus pouch of miseries hung inside my heart, Which stores the secret of my fading appearance, Propelled by my saliva containing the explosives Of your sweet axioms, That sabotages my emotions, And transforms the magnanimity into the sapphire icebergs.
I wish I could tell you, How my Sundays do not feel the same anymore, After the scorching sun burns the paper of my rights, After which the discriminatory cirrhosis scars my mind, Paralysing my very thought that the chasm between haves And have-nots will be sealed with Mutual respect for brotherhood.
To grow your hydrangea, You trample my tulips As they stand last in the list of aristocratic flowers, Although both could be grown together to concoct an orchard of heterogeneity, Instead of plotting Shallowness on a sun -baked land.
I wish I could tell you that, The trousseau of occhiolism that you carry, Unloads the small box of rationality, And makes you a Graveyard of stereotypes, That becomes oblivious To the equality That the azure nimbus sky, And verdant field distributes Within all the humans By manifesting them with the same five elements And filling them with The same crimson.
I may not be able to tell you all of that, But I know A rebellion of sanctity will surely reincarnate one day, To change the system of first among equals, And that day Karma will befall you, And invert those seven colours That you claimed to be yours, Into the white light, That was supposedly ours, from the prism of utopia.
This is a POV of a person who belongs to a secluded section (poor, untouchables, servants) of society.
Note :- Hippocampus is a part of brain. And cirrhosis occurs in the liver. Yet they have been used with different body parts to convey how disfigured things are. Also they have used symbolically to explain certain things. Read this in a figurative manner and you'll understand what it tries to convey :)
Can't thank you more for this. It's always happiness, to get your recognition and it will proceed to run on, it's been an integral impetus for me to keep going and keep writing. Endless love and respect ♡ @writersnetwork
Also, a bunny hug to all peeps who keep popping up. *sending you all my love*
The wardrobe clanged open, giving me the sight of 2 hemmed T-shirts, one beige, one porcelain. Then, I was a small innocent brain. Nothing could beat their allure, and I wore them as long as I could. As the clock ran along the river, Some new joined as awards. I bought myself some new, and Few came as gifts to grace the view. None stayed for long, Few changed colours, and few fitted wrong. As I matured with time, with Level headed acumen and spine. A lot, Was not, What was required any longer! A good fabric was in fact, the need of the hour. I picked my dress, Pure and pressed. None glossy, none knitted. Good for the soul, and well fitted. And still, through the journey, I tore a few more Few were lost, and few ignored. The beige and Porcelain are still there, Along with a few more from those gone years, The only regret I bear now, Are the favourites that were damaged somehow. Maybe someday I will sew those frays, Wear them boldly till my last days.