Draped in skins black and white and souls a charcoal grey , we walk on a land where even the breezes are hued a sunkissed red leaving lipstick stains as they peck our pale cheeks , a land where sand blushes on a rosy dusk and glows golden on a happy dawn , a land where days turn a thousand shades to form rainbows over the year and while walking on this land with skins dipped in blacks and whites and souls a charcoal grey , I realise that perhaps we are nothing but a monochrome in this colourful world!!
So there's this poem in my syllabus that I have a strong liking for . It's called 'A Roadside Stand' by Robert Frost and I've been meaning to write something revolving around the idea of it . So here's what I've come up with!
Behind the lens of poetry you see people carrying oceans of pain , hiding it within their arms in a failing attempt
You see them basking in the sun , though not for the warmth but for letting some light pass their darkened skins
Behind the lens of poetry it's easy to interpret that not all smiles are happy and not all cries need pain , not all quiets mean silence and not all showers are rain
Behind the lens of poetry the world's not dissected in boundries and planes , it's not large either and just about the size of a fist where people bleed for trivial things , snatching and tearing happiness out of each other's hands!!
since i vacated my pillows and the right side of the bed, in exchange of filling yours, your smell lulls me to nightmares, the nightly replays of how your soft soft lips can utter as destructive as goodbye, there are songs i never understand the lyrics but the tune is enough, like how you whispered, too low, for human ears to hear (or maybe i refused to hear so) but i knew that sound, the unloading of memories in front of me like they weigh too much on your shoulders, the relief you finally said it, that's the tune of goodbye,
there are thousand ways you can leave, yet you chose to do it in a way i could notice the sound of your footsteps coming closer but the echoes bounce in invisible wall between us, you chose to do it in a way, that i could memorize the agonizing seconds of knowing it's the end, we're in a dead end, the strike of guilt, of confusion, of armalite of questions of doubts, when did he carry my love and not the other way around?
i died a thousand deaths and live for thousand and one times to mourn the thousand lives of mine that have died,
and i still do, i wake up everyday, with the sun still the same, yet i'm still not used to half empty bed, i am half amazed, that i live days untouched by you, yet i am half scared for i know this is the kind of withdrawal from an addiction that still hides starvation behind, and im like counting day by day like a countdown to an unknown event.
Twenty three times I have ended Up saving you But what nobody Talks about are The fifty four Times I watched You save yourself Your eyes are A universe and Your voice speaks From another room As you tell Me that sometimes It is a Tragedy to be A writer, but Mostly it is Just a way Of bringing yourself Back from the Grave, to be A writer is To jump from A cliff and Yet escape unhurt.
Gloriously is one Of your favorite Words, you love How it simply Rolls from the Tongue and makes The softest of Sounds as it Hits the grass Psychopath is another And sometimes you Wonder if you Are one, often Your mind ends Up taking a Detour into the Realm of insanity And the thing That terrifies you Most is how Normal it seems How thin the Line between both Ends up being.
The touch of Your fingers is Like electricity flooding Through my skin I gather small Flecks of stardust The rare ones That fall to The floor, and Put them in A glass jar The light that Reflects back from Them is like White hot heat Framing my face That is how You live, that Is how you Love, it will Be short, it Will be sweet And it will Burn with the Fury of one Hundred and one Unloved stars.