I am wearing a yellow dress today and he tells me that I look like sunshine and smell of lilacs, with my hair falling on my shoulders he slightly brushes them before tucking them behind my ear and rests his hand on my cheek. I smile, with my pale lips as if I have seen a rainbow but as I try to place my hand on his, I do not find it there. He smiles at me and I stare in his black eyes looking for answers within the stars that live beneath those lashes but slowly it turns into a void and he begins disappearing into thin air until he becomes one with the wind and leaves me there, by the window, alone with an ache in my stomach with the butterflies starting to rot and yet I long for more.
I am wearing a yellow dress today but all I see is blue and all I feel is grey.
#picturec this is how you turn a perfectly soothing picture into something sad.
Before you begin to write, understand- poetry is not about fancy words but rugged souls and raw feelings//
A poem begins with an awkward chuckle as restless hands shift the pen to and fro in their palms while eyes search for a reason in the darkness surrounding them; but once the ears adjust to the roars and throbs of the ocean waves and east winds, those eyes will rest upon a butterfly sitting by the field of peonies and the poem will settle on your skin naked and vulnerable with metaphors engraved within and a few veiled meanings hidden beneath the blues
A poem loses itself halfway down the page into a spiral, just like this one and when it'll be hard to spot it's purpose it will try to merge with the shades of someone else's art trying to disappear like a chameleon for cowardice lies in all of us so hold onto it and paint it with something of your own; a poem is not always clear skies, sometimes it is the myriad of colours in a sunset or all the greys in a storm but most of all, the poem is you
A poem never ends, it is simply left unheard but it is always there, waiting to be written again another evening when the hearts are in pain and art needs a rebirth without a death of it's own.
"papa", I said in a small voice after knocking on his door. Stuck in a whirlwind of paper works, he raised his brows and nodded, signalling me to come in. I went and sat on his easy chair, watching him swivel through pages. After 10 minutes of awkward silence and me biting my knuckles with anxiety, I ask "how are you?" His fingers dropped the pen and looked at my face . "I am doing good , beta. What happened?" My eyes water work as his voice reached my ears. My body shivered, my voice choked. "Nothing. I was missing you. We haven't talked lately. I was wondering if we could grab dinner tonight?", I sigh. He got up from his work table and sat beside me, his arms gently pulling me in an embrace. My moist eyes rest on his chest and breathe deeply, inhaling the fragrance of my childhood, of my super hero. I open my mouth to speak and then close it, lacking words, lacking a language to communicate the disparity of my heart. His fingers caressed my hair in loving strokes and I broke into sobs. He let me bask myself in the grief that was clouding me and he didn't speak a word. He held me until I relaxed in his arms. "I feel so heartbroken, papa" I manage to whisper. "I know, princess. I see you waking up with swollen eyes every morning and I hear your cries every night. I could never gather the courage to come upto you although it killed me seeing you suffer. But some battles are to be fought alone, right sweetheart?" , Papa smiled. "I'll be happy again, won't I papa?" "The happiest. You'll beam with ecstasy and dance with joy. Just hold on , a few more nights." He kissed my forehead. And we finished a tub of ice cream together.