Part 2 Flames, Pains. An archer way out of his range. Your arrow piercing at the wrong time. You surely and barely, yet finally, managed to scratch my thick skin. What can I say to you my friend, I fear we are at our end. You used me, wither or not you see it. Your vision is blurred and split. Or did you see me clearly? And though you held me dearly, Was it me or my body you held? I was past our fling, on to friends. And now look at the messages you send. I ask about your day and what do you say? "I went on a date...". The one thing you wouldn't give me. Well now it's too late. You signed, sealed and delivered your fate. I wonder, are you proud of the chances I've given you? Proud of the way you were the first person to give my heart a beat, And the first to send it back to it's solid state. Some day, you will understand, The kind of games you play, Regardless of if you know you are participating or not, You will realize you can't win every round. And your heart will be on the ground. I'm sorry to have been here to see myself go through this. At least I'm glad I didnt give you that first kiss. Enjoy your lies, for because of them, You set me up to burn
Concrete poetry or shape poetry is a type of poetry that uses some visual presentation to enhance the effect of the poem on the reader. While the words, writing style, and literary devices all impact the meaning of the poem, the physical shape is also of significance. Many poets have written such poems to underline the significance of visualization which includes Lewis Carroll's "The Mouse's Tale," written in the shape of a mouse's tail.
1. You're so lonely to touch something that touches you back, yet all night long you hear the rain pattering dismally against the panes. In the morning you stare at the Sun for too long that it blinds you. You walk past city apartments with window-sills full of plants, and you always turn back to look at them, and suddenly all your bones start to crack under the weight of all the lives you're not living. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 2. You wake up from a deep slumber with the impression of a carpet on your bare knees and try to make sense of your suffering. You stand in front of a bottomless mirror and wonder if that's how you look when nobody can see you. If nobody knows you're alive, are you? It's like feeling as strong as licking your blood out of daggers and as fragile as sanity on the brink of madness. You know, some days you're nothing but the sound of the world ending. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 3. You live in the beauty of an unfathomable mistake where everything dies on the creases of your lips. You write cliche poems and read them to a stranger who doesn't read books because it's easier to explain your reality without dying in someone's metaphors. Everyone knows you breathe in spaces they can never touch because you're the only language you can write. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 4. You love the soft shade of the boy next door who never looked back at you. You realized it a long time ago that there are worse things in this world than dying because life oozes out of your skin when he tells you he might fall in love, but not with you. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 5. Poetry breeds lilacs out of your dead veins, you exist but not outside this poem.
If flowers could speak, I think they'd tell us to stop plucking their wings in the name of love, to stop pressing them between verses and poetries only to be withered away, like another sad story; they'd tell us to start watering roots instead of just what appears to be, to start appreciating things before they wilt away; to breathe freely, take in the fragrance of life and let them too.
If the sky could speak, I think it'd tell us to stop looking wistfully at colours of dusk, as the sun dips in crimson- a token of passion and not sin; it'd tell us to keep running behind things that make us happy but at the same time stop wishing, on things that keep falling, on ones that are not meant to be ours; to let ourselves dream, to begin again with a new dawn, a beautiful one.