Me and my summer blues and my winter greys; all of me and all of mine, is nothing but a metaphor.

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  • wasted_sparks 84w

    Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

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    I am tired of my hands
    Constantly pulling at my hair
    I'm tired of my hands
    Scratching at the scabs
    Making them bleed
    I'm tired of my hands
    Moving, moving and moving
    And I'm tired and tired and tired
    Of feeling like my hands are the only thing
    Keeping me sane
    They drive me insane
    My eccentricity takes root in them,
    My hands move and scratch and pull
    And they get tired too
    I'm tired of my hands
    Reaching for my cellphone
    Every other second
    I am tired
    That I can't seem to focus
    On the little things
    On the big ones
    That seem to constitute life
    I'm tired of my hands
    Measuring how much of my waist
    Fits in my palms
    The loathing that comes after it
    Is not worth my tears at all
    And I'm tired of my hands
    Writing and un-writing
    That I'll never share
    With people who see
    My hands moving and moving and moving
    I'm tired
    I'm so tired
    But it's so scary to be this tired
    Of my hands
    They are only hands
    But - , I'm so scared
    Of my hands stopping
    Of not moving, not moving, not moving at all
    Of clenching my fists and trying to breath
    And trying to be better, better and better
    And still failing
    For my hands seem like the only thing
    Still holding on to this fluttering, fragile thing
    Called life
    I could kill it, for all I know
    Let it go like it doesn't mean a thing to me
    But my hands still hold on
    For that is the only thing they have learnt
    To keep moving and moving and moving
    Until I'm about to fall
    And my hands
    They are the only thing
    That hold on and on and on


  • wasted_sparks 84w

    Back to writing shitty, unedited poetry in the middle of exams. (Why can't I change? I wish I could.)

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    Bonfire People

    There's a bonfire
    Burning and burning
    On the edges of an evening;
    A twilight transcended
    By a moon that dims.
    It burns on a sandy trail,
    A palm tree square,
    In the middle of chaos and emptiness,
    It burns;
    And there are matchstick people around it
    With matchsticks in their hands,
    Matchboxes, to strike and burn.
    And the matchsticks burn;
    The people burn within,
    Ashes of dreams and
    Ashes of memories and
    Ashes of everything they have been.
    The bonfire is a matchstick,
    When seen from a distance;
    And the people are a part of the dance
    Of light and shadow.
    And the people,
    They talk and they talk
    And something in them burns,
    Flickering embers
    And dying fire flames,
    And they dance around the
    Fireflies they have trapped in bottles.
    And the bonfire burns
    And burns and burns.
    But the bonfire is only a
    Flame, when seen from the distance;
    And there is no warmth-
    No warmth in the cold of the shadows.
    And the shadows, they creep,
    Closer to the light,
    Closer and closer;
    Until they die and die,
    Until the darkness is
    The only thing that survives.


  • wasted_sparks 95w

    I feel and then, I don't.

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    This memory is trapped in a polaroid picture
    And I'm not attached to it;
    That's what I tell myself
    As I hide it behind my stack of books,
    The rusty clock,
    A letter wrote and never sent;
    The same way I hide my tears whenever I look at it.
    Those smiles never come back to me.

    This memory is a talisman that
    I tie around my neck
    And I wear it everywhere I go.
    I tell myself it doesn't matter
    As much as I think it does.
    But I touch my neck everytime
    I wake from my half-dreamt dream.
    I am scared it will fall away
    And I'll never remember it again.

    This memory is a half-prayer
    Said in a half-whisper,
    Tucked away into a half-broken treasure chest
    That I push away into the deepest confines
    Of my heart,
    Of the closet,
    In half-darkness,
    Never to be opened again;
    But a constant reminder of loss,
    Of beginnings that never ended,
    Of a million years encompassed in a few days.

    This memory is a tragic end;
    A gentle hurt, a rebuke to myself.
    I press against it
    Like fingers against a wound.
    Like molten wax dripping onto marble floors,
    I melt away into the soft ache of it.
    It rages in my mind,
    A hurricane.
    Turning to a mild rain,
    A drought,
    A forgotten thought,
    Fading darkness to make way for the morning light,
    Until it is no more.


  • wasted_sparks 101w

    How difficult is the journey to change one's way of life?

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    I dig early graves for my dreams
    And as I lay them to rest,
    I write epitaphs on my skin
    And plant an oak over the ruins.
    I shroud sadness in the mist
    And leave the pain to heal.
    All I ask for is forgiveness,
    Soft fingers on burning skin,
    A soothing lullaby,
    Until I finally fall asleep.
    Moments have frozen
    And thawed in my dreams.
    A world that crashes and burns
    Will be rebuilt
    But this agony never seems to leave.
    It makes a path in my bloodstream,
    A home in my skin
    And my face is a mask
    Of jaded beliefs.
    The mirror screams
    Every time I look at it.
    Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
    I write sad poems on repeat
    And no one wants sadness;
    There's enough of it.
    I tell my mind to be at ease
    But things don't go
    The way I wish they did.
    So, if this is another sad poem,
    I'll make myself read
    A hymn to a God I don't believe in;
    A book I forgot, pressed beneath
    A thousand pages filled with other poems
    That you'll never read.
    So, if this is another sad thought,
    I'll cross it out of my list
    And I'll begin;
    Over and over again, until
    I believe,
    I deserve to exist.


  • wasted_sparks 106w

    Something in me breaks, time and again.

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    I see the world in greyscale,
    A tilting stage in my mind's eye;
    This is a dystopia, most days.
    Other days, they say,
    This is a phase.
    You'll get over it.
    Does it matter if I etch my name,
    In rainbow colours
    On the pocket of my ripped jacket?
    Does it count if I wear my heart on my sleeve,
    As I take deeper breaths before diving in?
    If this is blasphemy,
    If this is my crime,
    Will you lay me down
    In a grave so cold
    That the light won't be found?
    Will you let flowers grow
    Or will you rip them out?
    What if I don't show it?
    What if I write pages after pages
    On a diary that I hide;
    Beneath my pillow,
    Between my books,
    Under a dying tree,
    With a dead dream?
    Would it spare me the agony
    Of being different?
    Would you scribble my name on papers
    Only to burn them and rob my name of a forever?
    Would you still bind my hands,
    Until they can no longer write?
    Would it really be so terrible
    To die with pride?


  • wasted_sparks 111w

    I don't know about this one. I don't trust myself.

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    With your old scars and new stories.
    Rain on your roof and Robbers playing on repeat.
    Setting in your sadness like every sunset you have missed;
    You and your watercolour dreams.
    A rumour and a dead rose,
    Your heartbeat is just an erratic breath.

    With the boys, mistaken and misunderstood;
    A loner on the fields.
    Hemingway quotes etched on your wrist,
    A misted inkling of a misplaced memory;
    Tear stains on your pillow and the diary that you hid.
    Half-smoked memories on the pages of your own history,
    The half-baked excuses that you weave
    And the lies that you believe.

    With your sad smiles and sad eyes,
    Shouldering through your own agony,
    With your own misgivings and a subdued spirit.
    Shuddering in the cold like half-dead leaves
    In the dead of autumn, on half-filled streets;
    Lingering like the last notes being played by a pianist
    On nights that seem too bleak.

    With your silence and your piercing screams.
    Maybe you should talk.
    Maybe you should forget about it.


  • wasted_sparks 114w

    This is why I don't rhyme as I try to write a poem. I am absolutely horrible at it.

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    The ships do not dock in the morning mists
    As the sunset of a buried past persists;
    And the darkness enveloping this sad town
    Is just a colour darker than brown.

    Drenched in its sour, stagnant memory,
    I think of how poetry has abandoned me.

    I write words between the blue lines on my wrist.
    A stumbling thought; it lives and ceases to exist.
    And all the rhymes were only a facade, unhinged;
    In this burning town with edges so singed.

    Drowning in the stupor of my own melancholy,
    I think of how poetry has abandoned me.

    My whims sway in favour of my pain
    And my thoughts fall like the piercing rain,
    On my skin, on the fizzling flames
    Of a burning story of forgotten names.

    As my thoughts fall into the depths of agony,
    I think of how poetry has abandoned me.


  • wasted_sparks 116w

    Oh, but to not talk in riddles for once.

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    We are only half people sometimes;
    With half dreams and half hopes
    Burning at the edges of our vision.
    We give up on our Gods
    And let go of our beliefs
    And turn to the dust ridden crevices
    Of old libraries;
    Turn the faded, crinkled pages
    Of books that smell like
    Gentle mountains and rolling fields,
    Tumultuous seas and rough waters.
    We fill up our halves with poetry
    That talk of weak humans,
    Weaker ambitions,
    The morbid appreciation of everything dark,
    Of the difference between
    Loneliness and solitude.
    We paint the remains of ourselves
    With faded browns
    And let down roots into
    Parched lands of our forgotten memories.
    As dandelions grow in our brokenness,
    We wish upon dead stars,
    Resurrect old dreams
    And start anew.
    We grow into our halves
    Until we are more than just half people
    With half-lives;
    With twice the love to give.


  • wasted_sparks 117w

    Can you ever wish for things to go the way you want them to?

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    I look up at the colours in the sky;
    You have melted, a transcendental accident
    On the tips of the woebegone winds.
    And you're lilac
    And you're ivory
    And you're blue
    And as the mist sweeps away
    Memories of you,
    I think I'd like to remember you;
    Like this,
    Serene, drifting.
    An ancient hymn ringing in the crevices
    Of a weatherworn monastery;
    A falling dream, cascading,
    Untimely and unruly.
    Petals crushed and flowers, dying;
    And all I can remember is,
    A tapestry on chipping paint;
    A broken heart put together again.

    And if this is the way it goes,
    I will forgive and forget.
    You move on;
    Indecipherable, untamed.
    I'll write poems for you on good days.
    And until it aches,
    Like it always does,
    I'll keep my peace and
    Hide away.


  • wasted_sparks 117w

    This constant need for validation is depressing.

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    I wonder if you have paint stains on your fingers.
    Are there splatters on your floor,
    A rainbow in your mind,
    A casket of broken crayons
    Hidden away beneath your pillows?
    Maybe, you tuck a pencil behind your ear,
    Push your hair back
    And concentrate,
    Because you think the face is some kind of wrong;
    The eyes aren't deep enough.
    I wonder if you leave behind half-finished pictures
    And ink stained passages
    Between pages of your journal,
    That you seldom open
    Because you're scared to think about
    How you think about yourself.
    I wonder if you make clay sculptures
    Only to let them shatter,
    Like your weak, weak heart.
    Are your dreams in pastel
    Or are they gloomy greys,
    The dimmest of blues?
    Is it sad
    When the colours don't exist
    Outside of your mind?
    And is it wonderful
    To be loved all wrong,
    To be build of hopes that never see
    The first sunlight of spring,
    To be kept together by people in such ways?
    But then,
    I wonder if you smile at your reflection,
    In your splintered mirror,
    In your darkened room,
    In your little corner;
    Where you pin your favourite pictures
    With rusted thumbtacks
    And fairy lights, golden,
    And I wonder if the people in those pictures
    Have pieces of your heart.
    I wonder,
    If you're loved enough.
    I wonder if you love enough;
    And maybe, you do,
    For who would paint a million pages
    In shades of red, the way you do.