It was 3 am. It's always 3 am, when I find myself searching for the torn pages of my diary on the line of whose words were written in the blue colour of the ink. The time I wrote this, this blue colour didn't bring sadness to my heart, but rather clarity, for I was a writer who wrote truths, not the kind of lies which gave false hope to the people who depend on me for showing a path to them.
Now the blue ink brings nothing but sadness. Maybe that's why, I try to search for those pages, to feel the same ink, trace my fingers through the page and feel the exact thing I felt in that time. People say as you grow older, you attain maturity in thoughts. But to me it seems like, I'm finding myself in more twisted and tangled threads of uncertainty and confusion, where I can't write clearly. Because I myself am not clear. I'm becoming devoid of things which brought me happiness, of my truths.
I filled myself with these lies. And every 3 am, reminds me of the day I wrote the first piece without even knowing I was writing. It was a rant. A diary entry. I was small, innocent, someone who made a lot of spelling mistakes and grammatical errors, but more importantly, I was true. Now I feel like I cheat my pieces, the only thing that was my escape from this world, is now trapping me in a world of it's own who's creator is me. I weaved it with a web of lies.
Suddenly I remembered today, that those pages of my diary were torn and thrown away by the part of me which forgot the other part of myself. I threw the torn pieces from the same place where I found myself standing a few moments ago. The edge of the skyscraper.
And just then, I mumble these lines to myself, "On days of cotton candy skies, and nights surrounded with crushed blotted papers," I try to go on, the true part of me is pushing me to go on. And I go on, mindlessly yet being mindful at the same time, a beautiful irony enveloping me. I go on and say, "I find my truth in conflict with my lies, and they are in war as I stand at the edge of this skyscraper."
It suddenly hit me. The lines I just said, rhymed. They had a part of me in them. I rushed down, blinked my tears away and took out my old diary from which I had torn pages. It broke my heart little to see only five of the pages being there, but I pushed the little heartbreak away, and I wrote. I wrote these lines.
For the first time, in what seems like a lifetime, I found that the blue ink of the pen doesn't bring me pain anymore. It brings me redemption. As I write each and every word, I entangle every thread of the web of lies I created. I find the pages. I cannot touch them, but I know what was written. I remember the texture of the page, I remember the words, I remember the ink that brought me happiness.
I had started writing in pencils, because I didn't have the courage to use pens. But today I used a blue coloured pen. It brought clarity. It felt good.
It felt free.
And as I'm crying and smiling at the same time, I'll just end with the same first two lines I mumbled on the edge of skyscraper.
On days of cotton candy skies, And nights surrounded with crushed blotted papers I find my truth disentangle my lies And the war which started at the skyscraper, ended at the skyscraper.
This piece is inspired from a write up written by @_guts_ whose title is the same as mine.
The two lines, "On the days of cotton candy skies, and nights surrounded with crushed blotted papers" does not belong to me. It was written by @_guts_ Rutvi, you write amazingly. And I always wanted to write something on these two lines. Also, surprise.
positron@john_solomon I apologize for delay in reply sir, Thank you so much for your wonderful words and your precious time. yes, I do remember some of them. They are amazing and also love the poetry of space and physics blends. Hope you have an amazing time ahead✨
positron@silverglitters apologize for delay in reply, thanks a lot for your precious time and support. Hope you have an amazing time ahead :)
john_solomonThat is my wish for you also, have an amazing day and time ahead my friend ❤
Maybe we don’t write For other people to read And appreciate...... Maybe poetry is a way of Listening to oneself and One’s incomplete stories By putting them down on paper. That incomplete melody Buried deep inside flows Into the words, the metaphors Like tracing the rim of a glass Half filled with water - Waiting for it to resonate .... Every sound, every vibration Gets amplified the minute It is felt by a poet. To be able to deduce the Happenings of daily life, People and emotions into Prose and poetic verses Is the ability of a great writer And likewise of great poetry . Maybe one writes not to only Express oneself but to be Heard in a soundless room , To be felt , to be touched And in turn touch others In ways only a poet can . Prose may not seem much But it is the lament of Broken hearts, unfulfilled promises Undiscovered dreams Universal truths and judgements. Maybe poets write to sum up And decide within the lines of text How to break free from the Seemingly chained up life And free oneself from bonds. If poetry is a form of expression Then a poet is a magician.
They again asked me: Tell us the truth, Aren't you one of those Who have no places to go And wander like a doe?
I said: The truth is I ain't got no shame In calling myself a Gypsy Until The borders I cross The bridges I tower on The plateaus I climb The trees whom I befriended The chirpy little birds The enigmatic squirrel The dancing grasslands The prairie dogs, All leave me like you And your distant eyes. At least that is the truth about who I am And this also tells about who you are...
Truth is the quietest child in the class whom no one understands. Truth is the silent scream whom everyone ignores. Truth is the heavy burden from whom everyone runs away. Truth is the bitter pill whom no one swallows. Till truth becomes the only option to live with. Because the glamour of False, Deception and Dishonesty dries up fast and the ugly duckling Truth turns into a beautiful swan for all.