At times, my mind is a garden
where sweet memories bloom all day,
red roses in the name of lost lovers
and white lillies for the friends that stay.
Other times, it's like a jungle.
It's wild, and I get lost in here
between the canopies of my thoughts
and the thorns of my own fear.
On some nights it becomes a park,
So I take a break from my routines
and walk barefoot on its grasses
that grow untamed, just like my dreams.
Though it all just makes me wonder
whether it's a forest, garden or park.
But nonetheless, good things will grow here,
So on my new journeys, I will embark.
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 11:27 AM UTC
In my head, I have a chaotic mind.
In my chest, a broken heart.
But aren't all these dark and broken things
the ones that inspire art?
The things I have inside me,
they can build storms and hurricanes.
You think that blood runs through me
but I hide madness in my veins.
My demons dance to the music,
my angels have loved to sing.
To you, it isn't melodic,
to me, it's a beautiful thing.
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 2:23 AM UTC
The winds of winter are cold.
The snowflakes fall and freeze,
upon a world that's even colder,
than the coldest winter breeze.
This world is dark and bitter,
It taught us to cut our wings,
to use people whom we should love,
and rather love all useless things.
But even snowflakes have the courage
to fall in this world, and melt,
than giving up to its coldness
and spread the warmth it never felt.
So can't you be a little sowflake,
can't you be like melting snow,
that ends a cold today
and brings a warmer tomorrow?
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 7:13 AM UTC
My mother whispered me good night,
told me sweet dreams come true,
but my mother did not know that
my nightmares were dreams too.
And they were the truest reality,
all those nightmares that I saw,
where gunshots were the music
for those who broke the law.
That night I saw empty streets
because all the people were just dead
as blood dried on their bodies
in different hues of red.
So I woke up from my nightmare
and my mother heard me scream.
She cried because our reality
was not different than my dream.
We saw guns pointed to throats,
and heard all the big bomb blasts.
So I wait for the day when all these things,
will be ashes of the past.
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 1:31 PM UTC
I am sure you love when it rains,
when the drops fall off the sky,
when you watch them racing down
from clouds too heavy and high.
But do you see what those clouds do
when they pour down all the rain?
They let go what weighs them down
so they can swim in the sky again.
You too are like a cloud,
but you have been heavy for too long
because for you sorrow is weakness
and you just want to be strong.
So you hide all of your tears,
lock down all of the pain.
But if you want the clear skies,
Let your tears be like the rain.
Don't keep the weight you carry,
let it go in the tears you cry,
and once the rains are over,
You'll see a rainbow in the sky.
Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
The night is your lullaby
that seranades you to sleep,
while for me it is the darkness
that forces me to weep.
I know you will be worried,
because my tears carry my pain,
but the drops are almost beautiful,
like the ones from clouds of rain.
But I cry because I feel,
and I feel, so I try to write
about my wounds deeper and darker,
than the quiet, melancholic night.
So I stay awake and use my ink,
for all those words I may never say.
The night may not have a sun,
but it's always a writer's day.
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 11:21 AM UTC
Grabbing my shades of yellow,
I used to paint the sun,
that peeped up from low valleys
when the day had just begun.
Then I took all hues of blue,
and filled them in the sky
where a lonely tree would stand,
and the birds would sing and fly.
The greens I saved for grasses,
and the reds were for the flowers,
But now in place of all these things,
now stand sky reaching towers.
And I thought I couldn't paint,
for I grew up and lost my art,
but I know my brush still aches,
for the colors dear to my heart.
So bring me blues skies if you can,
and I'll paint from sun to ground.
But the truth is that I cannot paint,
because my colors can't be found.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
If you ask me what revenge looks like,
I'd answer that it's like a dry leaf,
for it has lost all of it's colors
to the heartbreaks, pain and grief.
So now it'll take it's own revenge,
without any hint or clue,
because when the dry leaves fall,
it's an admirable autumn for you.
The leaves will fall over your head,
and under your feet, you'll crumble some
But autumns are not just beautiful,
they're a promise of the winter to come.
So when the leaves gave up to gravity,
they brought winter along with them.
Now the cold is here to **** you,
with winds full of mayhem.
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 6:35 AM UTC
I knit all of my breaths together,
collect them and name them 'life'.
It helps me to wake up everyday
and not slit my wrists with a knife.
I survive and breathe and feel,
and it's hard but I keep on trying,
to fake a smile every now and then,
while on the inside I am dying.
But I learned that art is a good friend,
It stays along no matter the weather.
And maybe I have my art too;
I can be alive and dead - together.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 10:27 AM UTC
People say a lot of things
and think what they say is true,
but don't worry, you're not alone
They told things to me too.
They told me that I'm a human,
so my life can feel like hell.
I told them that I'm a human,
so I can heal as well.
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 8:09 AM UTC