I'm painting my nights with happy lies, hiding away all the truths radiating agonies and essence of heart break. Fake smiles reflecting on the mirror under the moon light and pain burried, deep inside my heart, I'm creating masterpieces with lies all over myself. Smearing the paint of happy, sugarcoated lies on the starry sky and collecting and throwing away the bits and pieces of truth that my scratch my wounds and make me feel like an empty abandoned soul again. The moon smirks at me and mocks me for being this vulnerable that now I've to surround myself with some lies just to make my heart not feel the pain and so that I can rest my eyelids. Life has changed so much that the person who always held the hands of truth now embraces happy lies so that she won't just curl in a corner of the room and spend the gloominess, crying.
I am a minuscule speck of dust A tiny grain of filth I am the swollen wooden floor A can of water spilled I am the grimy furniture A mess upholstered with despair I am the candle splattered table A leg broken off of an ornate chair I am the spider webs of desolation A tangled thready nightmare I am the peeling paint on the walls A thing at which people would once stare I am the falling plaster of loneliness And stuck between the past and present I am the rusty pipes that clang A series of dirt laden crannies and dents I am the shattered porcelain vases A bouquet of dried and rotting flowers I am the mangled music box A grandfather clock left counting hours I am the frayed and threadbare carpet A once celebrated and admired finery I am the crumbling brick walls A burden full of doubt and misery I am the broken hopes and desperation A basket full of your incessant lies I am that house you left abandoned And conveniently forgot to say goodbye
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The moon looked The brightest that day. The cosmos- Pushed life into Nurtured balls of courage, Which had looked So pale, one day. The night looked so pretty, And the stars Really WERE 'balls of fire'. When you held my hand And promised me, Dad. How much you can say, Without speaking a word, How much you can love, With your warm, healing eyes.
As I breath in, I know what keeps me calm How I survive, What I feel, And how I fight.
My soul catches your Precious gestures, Your efforts, And such a minimal portion Of your unfathomable love.
And as I sit here, father, I weave a painting of my dreams, The memories that will always be The Crayons for me. And the canvas is the art.
You know, The crayons have all the colour In them. And the beautiful coloured beasts Rekindle more of their kind.
Then,what? I fill my canvas with A stroke of brilliant gold.