Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I gave to you the color blue
I drew it from the sky
I picked the flowers of the field;
red roses, yellow daffodils.
I made a lovely palette
with the brightest color-swirl,
And painted you a picture
with the colors of the world.
For me, you took a rainy day,
you handed me the darkest grey,
but told me it was green
 Jan 2021 Felix Hackberry
Meera
He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come
That's how true poetry comes into existence

— The End —