I didn't find it significant to state that mountains face up to sky, sky folds in clouds, clouds leak their tears, tears in rain taste less salty, salt is the real precipitate of the waves always rushing in waste.
All this cycle never had me, untill I saw you, lying flat on the bank of a turbulent river, flowing down that melting mountain peak, leting go off it's sparkling snow, still trying to hold, against it's will to stay.
When I saw your puffs matching the colour of the clouds, calling you back to the days of your childhood. Those rains were drops, making you learn that, numbers are actually infinite and that mathematics is all waste, unless applied.
It lead to fumes, evaporating from a scroched land beneath your feet, buried under it's own soil and your soul.
The solar system was just a chapter, turning into cliché poems, untill you showed, how the sunshine wakes you up, from my dreams and the moonlight let's you breathe me out. How the dim lights hanging on your room's wall, makes your own constellation of ifs and buts.
Birds and their beaks never told me their tales, untill your words caged them. Leaves never meant autumn to me, before one day, I walked past them, engaged in your thoughts and heard what actually a soft cry sounds like.
Silence was absence of speech for me, when yesternight i heard nothing, of you telling me how beautiful the shades of rainbow look like and I was lost in the brown of your iris. Shades of brown, smell more of caffeine blending into the shades of grey.
How could the color codes of unused lipsticks look more like a lip of rose petal, brushing over my blushing cheeks. I could smell a lost wood from the book sleeping over your barren chest.
It all came as a circle of clock, when I saw you as a human and humans as natural as nature.
I read this all, when you were asleep. I read your letters, you never sent. I'll learn them by heart, once you decide to deliver.
Each book I read , Leaves behind a little bit , Of itself inside of me . I pick up all those jewels And thread them together . Seeking inspiration from Someone's words of wisdom . How beautiful is this , Power of words . That uplifts and helps redeem . The human mind displays , Sheer brilliance . When simple words written , Leave behind legacies , Of inspiration , courage , For generations to read . With time the person behind , That pen may fade away , Into oblivion . But , the mark of that Ink spilled , remains indelible . Etched for eternity , On pages blank ....
Hello one and all! I'll be getting back to reading and reposting soon. Please bear with me in that regard as I'm moving a bit slower these days. Respectfully asking that you continue to use #ceesreposts to tag me to your work, rather than my account name. Blessings, Carolyn
POET Parents knows the way within a baby A doctor knows the way within a body A soldier knows the way within a country A swimmer knows the way within water A lion knows the way within the Jungle A basketball player knows the way within the court A painter knows the way within the painting A Eagle knows the way within the sky A calligrapher knows the way within the paper Like that A poet knows the way within the poem A reader can get the summary of the poem but can never get the real meaning of that poem Because
A poet is the only one who can travel to the depth of the poem cause the poet have faced that deep emotion and then bleeded it in the form of poem on the paper A poet can enter into the poem from any angle , direction and way but no one else can A poet and the poem are the forms strongly bonded through love from ages and will be bonded for ages A poet asks his beloved poem " oh beautiful form of literature how do you keep millions of emotions hidden in those short lines which just ends in a minute or two?!!"
NOTE:-The first stanza is based on Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. From the third paragraph, it is about Anxiety and from the fifth paragraph, it is about Bi-polar disorder. If there has been any mistake from my side, forgive me:) ----------------------- ---------------------- I tried to write a poem last week, it ended in three stanzas. A thing inside me stirred and told me, not to end it in odd numbers. I've had this problem since preparatory; when I was first introduced to numbers.
Odd numbers make me uneasy, they feel like the man in the subway, who keeps gazing my way. Odd numbers feel like a mask, that doesn't let me breathe, and never the less I keep wearing it.
I met a boy on my way back from the first day at school, he seemed nice and tried to befriend me, although I spoke not even a word. I would have loved to thank him for his effort, but the words kept dying in my throat.
Words betray me when I talk, but they make up for it when I write. Pardon me, if I stutter too much when I speak, but that takes courage too.
On the first of July, I woke up with a smile. The world seemed too bright, and I, too preoccupied with the things I had to do. The two friends that I did have, asked me if I had too much coffee; the enthusiasm I had seemed unreal.
By the October that followed, it took me courage to wake up from the bed. The world seemed too dark, and I couldn't make myself wake up.
I did not want to write another paragraph because it would make it an odd number, so this is a line instead, to be specific the fourteenth because I wanted to make it even before I went.
You played me like a memory, as we drove back to December in a month of July. Had too much of everything that was too little But you couldn't rinse my tears in your cry?
No bridge I haven't burned that leads to your home, but there's an ocean of silence in your words and there's no boat I haven't rowed that could lesser the distance you never traveled.
You played me like a memory, within a familiar rhythm of a rusted old tune, a rose already wilted before fall like a voice of a familiar person on a wrong call.
I was a reflection of your sins, those poems and words were already written would you kill me with a bullet or sword? but you were a ripper, "Belove, you were a memory all along of someone I used to love."