In the deep chambers of my soul, lies my life-long collection of fragmented hopes, shattered reveries and chain of regrets I schlepped, I blenched, as I suppressed my vehemence
You came uninvited, sit at the end of the table beseeched, whispered, "Write." You put a quill on my hand and lets me coalesce ----- unspoken words into rhymes, verses into metaphors with a seamless lilt
Its 3 am, and my mind is wide awake. I always felt like I'm walking in a verdant lawn barefooted, to a place betwixt slumber and restlessness. And in that place, your reminiscence emerges. I felt my heart loves you and, I splurge my time to cool one's heels. In that paradise, I anticipate for your shadow. In that place, I am sitting serene underneath an old tree; craving time would halt for no reason why.
I don't know if I'm awake or I am just dreaming. The only thing I know is that, beneath that tree, my heart's waiting for you while succumbing in the strain of Saudade memories of what's used to be you and me.
Whenever I talked to you I wish the night would never end, that time stops ticking, giving me another second, another minute more just before I bid you goodnight. Because whenever we talk, you coax me into believing that dark things in me can be beautiful. I can hear it in your voice; it's reflected in the depths of your soul.
As the ink flows in my pen, my mind is anxious, filled with thoughts about farewells, uncertainties and endings. Will you stay, and continue to show me the things I failed to see in my own skin? What if you choose to go, will there be another soul who's kind enough to make me feel beautiful amidst my darkness and storm?
@mirakee I don't know what to say, I wanna cry so bad. Thank you, thank you so much!
Tonight I'll not count those stars, embellishing the empyrean in enigma. Instead, I'll think about my momma. She has always been kind and gentle like I'm a porcelain doll and she had painted me with galaxies. I still remember, she always liked white lilies more. Not the chrysanthemum, they were grandpa's paramount.
Tonight I'll not ponder my grandpa's passing maladies; I can't even count with my fingers alone or my papa, who forfeits some part of his soul in the borders every single day, his eyes redder than maraschino cherries. Instead I'll think about the days he took me out for ice creams. Daddy used to paint too; his canvas scarier than realities.
Tonight I'll not anticipate my "friends", who couldn't hold me when I wept my hardest. I cried that day, for a secret I thought I'd take to my grave. They always knew my dark grey eyes held the moonlight that paced up and down the corridors but didn't care enough to ask. I know this facade too, will burn into nihilism one day.
Tonight I'll not be the constant spiral of disappointment; I've been gifting my parents with. Growing up in my shadow's shadow was not easy in this rough and tumbled town. Even though my mind is sharper than the affirmations of a better tomorrow. Instead I'll think about the hasty letter I scribbled that day, spilling ink from the inkwell.
Tonight I'll fill this hole in my chest. Although my vision is blurred with regrets and self pity. Tonight I'll think about the monotonous days. No, not happy ones, but the mediocre ones. There's no point in holding onto false hopes. Instead I'll force myself, not to think about the night that seems to be endless, I'll rather think about the dawn that turns dark sky into amber hues.
No matter how hollow I've been feeling, if not better, one day I will not be the worst.
when i close in and zone out bricks facinate me and i position myself against the wall of all my insecurites cemented with smiles that should never have existed and adorned with hooks that now prick my back as i very meticulously start building a cage with no windows around my promonotary self with walls so tall that nobody dares to climb and basements so deep that my roots reach wide upto everything discarded and decaying; i build till my arms hurt and my tears go dry hatch the roof and bolt it from the inside; and as i sit in this enclosed room of everything i've ever feared i feel the closest to myself vulnerable and holding up tears waiting for my walls to go weak and fall and pin me down so i can collect the debris of my fallen self and begin building again the whole of me, that i am too naive to know territories from the parts of me that i'd never dare to show
Melting galaxies stir as your Parker's ink and give a spiral form to deranged rows of your poetry. So that subjecting to its gravity, I would offer my name to your verses and all those damped pages of your diary will start smelling again as rings of celestial whiffs are emitted by Hawking radiation.
We're standing on different galaxies of the same universe, where thousands of half dead clouds are craving for reincarnation. Someday we'll see collision between them, a clash between our frequencies and fewer than few points of infinity, a number of rhymes will emit, for completion of our poetry.
There're some quasars in you, I want to indulge in and want to embrace all those regions of your heart where the cosmos has left a boreal space for me. I don't know how many tongues are there to write our love. How many earths are still isolated in your cold-ink, but there're some phials, filled with liquor of crescent moons, I'm drunk over; but over you.
That intensity of your lyre's notes, creates a pseudo vacuum in outermost cells of my heart's bloodless walls and offers me some comets to drink. I give rise a poetry for your eyes having a gravity same as black holes and we don't remain incomplete anymore. Feeling You all the time, I don't feel when the dark hue of night kisses the blueness of airspace. When those serums of your poetries fill rhapsody in air and for me, there remains no difference between bounds and infinities.
Your rhymes have some sharp edges and soon they will be more intense even than a claymore. Soon sky will expose the moon behind cloudy curtains and all constellations will plot to go against their rotation, to stabilize their planetary motion. Soon the rest part of our poetry will touch the top of its perfection. Venus and earth will come more closer and soon We will.
Of course, it is easy to pretend that the hurricane inside you isn't ripping you apart but you can never ignore the leaking roof that's making ugly puddles on the tiled floor.
Puddles of ugly thoughts fill your head with so much to feel about and there is nothing beautiful about it- its surges never fail to drown you every single time.
You have mastered so well the art of pretending you're not drowning in the pool of your anxieties, that every time you suspect a crack in your bones, you crack a joke to muffle down the shattered sound of you breaking into pieces. And you get to convince yourself everything is alright even if you no longer know what's the difference between what's broken and not.
Things like past never seem still like the memoirs of raindrop kisses And apparently clocks do have hearts, also they get tired, they run under personification;
Of a clock, the minute hand always betrays her gifts her a flower vase full of wilted blooms blooms which once inhaled feiulemort and freshness of broken promises before finally choking themselves indeed those blooms run, underneath her every breath adding poison to her past, while every minute ticking inside her feels the sapling of sadness growing inside her and the siblings planted on the backyard of her present.
Every 12:00 to 1:00 ante meridiem she struggles to be quiet, take some rest but betrayed again the hour hand sits idle by the side made himself comfortable on feathery cushions lack of work has deformed him and made him ultra lazy sometimes he utters nonsense he doesn't job but repeats his nursery rhymes after every one hour
bells continue .......
"Twinkle twinkle I sit idle I had a lot to tell But asleep I fell."
"Indeed, my little son." whispers the clock caressing his face in the backdrop of silence.
This lazy son of the minute hand is his burden lazy at home sleepy at work wakes up lately has more perks being the dad he has to work from the 1st minute till his last breath and you know, this father couldn't be replaced by his worthless son.
Let's come to the framework, the grandmother, the coffin of emotions her lap is home to her children and grandchildren she is one and all in herself she has an immense contribution in holding the family together, she is the frame, she is the outer clock she is the mother to minute hand she is the custodian of the flock.
PS - For clock is the concrete soul of a mother, she is also the abode of the minute hand (concrete father soul) and hour hand (concrete son/ daughter soul) with 24×7 and endless services. The outer clock (framework) being the the grandmother soul, she is a golden frame for a gain in her experience.