I read each word, Yet I don't understand, It's as if my brain has been crouching so long, Hovering over the collage of letters, That when I stand up suddenly, All I see is darkness While my eyes are still open
The essence of the letter eludes me, As each silent whisper Of my thoughts tracing the cursive, Seem to drift off the pages like a ghost, Haunting what I could have known but never learned
And as I get to the end, I know I'll have to read it all over again So that maybe I'll comprehend After reading a second time
But no matter how I skim through, How fast, How slow, How long, I stare at the ink, Convincing myself to believe I don't understand the writing, Though I've actually known all along What it's conveying, But I don't want your message to hurt me
Thus, my eyes, which have glided Over these unchanged words a million times In a few short hours In hopes they would suddenly gain a new meaning, Feign blindness to deny The pure harshness of reality
Sorry that it's a little choppy I had to somehow reduce the original amount of lines to 20 to follow the challenge rules.. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Midnight Spies •••••••••••••••••••••• The lady in black sat in the back Wearing a hat meant to hide the truth in her eyes From the crowd fooled by Her taciturn disguise
Soon, the clock struck midnight And she, whose eyes couldn't lie, Looked up to face the gentleman before her Who came requesting a dance
He approached for he had his suspicions Yet he couldn't confirm if it was really her whom he sought For the brim of a fedora Cast shadows over half her facial features
Chin low with a seemingly shy smirk She accepted his offer And, hand-in-hand, they entered the 'battlefield' Assuming their positions, They synchronized with the music Whilst almost close enough To breathe the same breaths Then the bullets of inquiry were fired
You're. .. The ink to my pages, The words to my blank spaces, The dot of my dimples, The cross of my religion, The forever to my finiteness
And in the everlasting finity of us, Our story created a spark, An unpredictable variable In an experimental mixture Of passion and imagination
We didn't know Where it would take us, How long we would last With a wildfire in our parchment palace, Yet we persisted in our lovely innocence, Cherishing each moment between the lines
And maybe That was a mistake we'd never regret Or a blessing we can never forget, But no matter what we label The unknown that almost undid us, What remains is the fact That without the sudden firestorm, We would not have become what we are
And if we consider How papers may glow in fire But books burn into hearts We could appreciate more The tale of our blazing love
Love Letters to Broken Hearts ~~•~•~~•~•~~•~•~~•~•~~•~•~~•~•~~ I met a broken heart last week. Asked why the break-up came to be.
She said, “He didn’t like me being me.”
My eyebrow rose in confusion, yet I nodded like I understood the complexity of relationships and responded with some random words off the top of my head, of which I hoped sounded like wise advice. “It’s nothing to dwell on. Everyone breaks piece by piece, showing off little fragments of themselves until they find the one longing for the whole puzzle. Clearly, he wasn’t the one, so just move on to find the one who will accept nothing less than all of you.”
“That’s harder than it sounds,” she countered, and I said, “Maybe, but going on a scavenger hunt for puzzle pieces sounds a lot more fun than crying over someone who never bothered to look.”
Anyways, I met a broken heart last week. In the process, I discovered my talent for poetry on a topic I’ve never even experienced myself. Yes, love! After that whole ordeal of me giving sage advice to a random stranger in a storage closet at my school, I thought of something I figured would be a neat idea: I should just write “love” letters to broken hearts- not love letters as in the “I love you! Date me?” kind, but the kind of sweet love notes that express how much you appreciate their existence and all the things their heartbreakers couldn't see.
Of course, spontaneous lil’ me had to go and act on this idea. Let me just say that the test run on this drive of good deeding (yes, I know that’s not actually a real term) didn’t go as well as planned. Somehow, I ended up with a fiery handprint on my left cheek- the answer to a total misunderstanding created by me. I didn’t deserve it (they obviously didn’t know that), but I didn’t get upset about it. Nope, not at all. Instead, I thought of the stinging pain as constructive criticism which led me to tone down and tweak my non-romancing love letter techniques.
I persevered under the alias, CupidGotNothin’OnMe, because I learned that signing my real name may lead to unwanted and undeserved consequences. Granted, I should have picked a better name, perhaps a name that suggests, “I mean what I say with all my heart” such as Sincerely, (Just think: at the bottom of every note, the words, “Signed, Sincerely”), but um...let’s just say I was too lazy to change it in time before it stuck. And boy, did it stick, spreading all over school and even to the neighboring schools thanks to social media: “More wise words from @CupidGotNothinOnMe,” “@CupidGotNothinOnMe left me a note,” “Who is @CupidGotNothinOnMe and who will they strike next,” “Thank you, @CupidGotNothinOnMe.” I exaggerated, more or less, but at least this time my letters of “You are lovely” poems were well received. No slaps to the face came my way, whether that be because my letters were sent anonymously or because my wording improved, I’ll never know, but I like to think it’s because the offered pieces of my whole heart helped heal their broken ones (at least a little bit).
To Hold the World ~~•~•~~•~•~~•~•~~•~•~~•~•~~•~•~~ She wanted to hold the world in her hands. Treasure it like a snowglobe in a prized collection. Shake it up a little just to watch things settle. Polish it to make the shiny sphere better, if ever “better” was possible after her thorough scrubbing away of the sky's flaws.
She wanted to hold the world in her hands. Sculpt it like a skilled potter. Guide it the right way ‘til near perfection was reached. Make an impact in its evolution.
She wanted to hold the world in her hands. Examine it as if it were an abstract work of art and her, the aesthetician. Study the stars, the waves, and the trees, the food, the animals, and the people, only to credit Nature as an outstanding artist possessing otherworldly talent.
She wanted to hold the world in her hands. Love it like a mother would her precious child. Support them in all their uniqueness. Protect them always.
She wanted to hold the world in her hands... because her dying wish was to see all the beauty of the world in one place, for she couldn’t very much go out and see it herself whilst stuck in the bed of a hospice located at some corner of the world she wanted, so much, to hold.
This is a little piece of imagery from a longer description about a made-up foreign planet... P.S. The name of the planet is Cerul (which u would know if I actually posted the whole thing) #bluepup#ceesreposts ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sky is a sea of vivid cerise blending into darker shades the deeper it goes until it meets the cerulean surface, blending with the horizon, comparable to an eternal sunset without a setting sun. A planetary complexion as such deludes one into thinking that the pure white clouds, shaped like magical, floating castles of rounded towers upon firm foundations, do not belong in the parched ocean above. Yet when the occasional storm rolls in upon the invisible waves of the sky, the clouds, that seem to be lost among the reddish-pink and blue hues of the planet with six moons, will prove their eccentricity (in human standards) by raining a mysterious sheet of silver rain. These raindrops fall fast but sink slow as if the air has the texture of water and the silver substance a small stone descending into the depths.
After falling slowly, in an Alice-through-the-rabbit hole-type-of-way, they will land either in the mountainous or forest regions of the land but not in the desert regions between. If it is the forest, whose limbs and leaves dance as if they’re swimming, that welcomes them, then the silvery pearls will impact the magenta canopy, similar to that of liquid metal mercury gracefully sliding off the tips of every surface without shattering its perfect form. Below, the drops will collect on the grass of cerulean blue and in the bellies of the carnivorous plants which snap at the spherical liquid as if they were the juiciest of meats. Puddles of silver will dot the landscape, matching the single stripe of the now glistening river of water that flows through the beds of the forest grounds. Later, for the dark soil does not soak up the rainfall, a mist, appearing like that of powder immersing itself in water, will float up as the vaporized form of the clouds’ tears. In the same way, the rain will slide down the gray, black, blue, violet, and crimson boulders or cliff faces of the mountainous region, though their journey down is but a bit longer than that of the distance between the leaf-to-grass space of the magenta woods. Furthermore, at a certain place among the midnight cliffs, a waterfall cascades into a clear pool. Some rain will fall into this pool and sink to its bottom giving it a lustrous silver appearance whose color will take a longer time to fade into its original transparency.
I met a boy on colourful streets, Carrying grey cumbers on his little shoulders. His hazel eyes whelved with a cloudy shine, Walking past the burgeoning orange lights. Ah! And there was no crescent on his lips Just a parched crepe sealed so tight.
He glanced at me, And I asked, "What's the matter, child?" He says he sees everyone's darker side, An ugly face beneath every perfect charmer.
The boy knows, flowers are not meant to live forever Nor the stars shine always up the crystal night sky He doesn't feel the ecstasy in the breeze, So he keeps his feelings inside memoirs. But the nostalgia ain't enough, To bring the tears in his eyes.
He paints red dots, really dark ones On the map of his life At the cusps, wherever he was told a new secret.
I gave him a flower then, And a sparkler in his little fingers. Said, "The beauty can be preserved in a fairytale, And the glory inside the heart."
So he smiled.
"The world is a kaleidoscope, Like a rainbow vision. Black lingers too, But just to complete the picture."
Now, no longer he believes world to be a grey graffiti.
You can really feel her footsteps as she races for the door It feels as though an earthquake hit, much harder than before The monstrosity that she is, came from always being bullied She'd go home with scrapes and bruises, & all her clothes were sullied All she needed was one friend, just to not feel so alone Her pain was so intense, she would cry so hard and moan She used to be so sweet and kind, & now she is so mean She went from one extreme to another, before settling in between
A web of intentions Preventions, Tensions And contention Hold me in place As I reach To breach And beseech With eloquent speech That which contradicts And conflicts The scripts That predicts The end before it starts
A city at night, especially snowy nights like this, often seems too deserted and dark. The few souls that roam on the streets, make their way through the snow to their cosy homes.
The darker it gets, the more vacant it becomes, and at eleven, the city sleeps. At every intersection, every foothpath, and every shop established, the wait of a warm sun to shine, awaits.
The eye of a protagonist would usually catch the traffic light that keeps changing colours in vain, or maybe the hustle-bustle of the wee hours would still be reverberating in their ear, but had the protagonist known the city while it was alive?
A grave yard spreads across an acre of land, and in the heart of a city for breathing human beings, an acre stands just for the departed souls. All of a sudden time stands still, and as the clock strikes twelve, all the dead in the city doesn't live in graves anymore. Some lived in the grave yard itself, easily blending in the surroundings.
The dead, in her own peculiarity wore lilac coloured dress, and sat down on the ground unbothered of mud stains. Counting the graves present, she gave up when it exceeded the number of fingers on her hand. A routine she repeated every night, counting the number of graves before she would be drawn to the great sleep too.
The protagonist would still be overcome with the deads beauty. So much so they will sit right beside her, and ask her if she needed anyone besides the moon, to keep her company. Maybe she will nod, but most probably a silence will prevail, and the protagonist will anyway stay.
Some questions will linger in the protagonists mind, but the hesitation would make them stiffen, and nothing near the sound of twenty six alphabets would come out of their mouth. She will speak, enthralling the one hearing, and maybe if she asked, 'How many times would you ride into hell?' The protagonist would reply, 'As many times hell would let me in.'
Maybe that is what drew in city victim number 36, and made them give up their life. A city that slept by eleven, had been deaths least favourite city to lure human beings to her. This city that slept by eleven, had too many people already kissed by ice, and nights that were too tame for them. Death hated putting people too much like her, to the great sleep.
When protagonists leave, or rather she makes them, she looks at the six feet dug graves, each engraved with her name, hidden from the human sight, yet the only thing that catches her eye. A city that sleeps by eleven, gets lonely by one, yet too busy when the clock strikes five in the morning.