Please don’t paint me promises.

For I have nowhere to hang them.
White walls
I prefer to leave blank.
Void of any depiction of far away lands that I may or may not get to see.
When I hang a picture I can’t help but hang my hopes up with it.
They always end up slightly crooked, but strung too high for me to reach out and fix.
Then they sit and stare at me.
And I start to yearn for them to swallow me up.
But they don’t.
They can’t.
Because they’re just paintings.
Nothing real.
And I'm always left feeling so achingly disappointed.

So please don’t paint me promises
I prefer to keep my walls blank.

I feel the tinge of pain again.
No ,It  isnt the wounds that hurt ,
But everything else-
The look of sarcasm,                                                                              
The look of disgust,
The silence of loneliness,
The winds of abandonment,
The occasional  frown,
The nameless torture,
The unwanted shameful fame,
The experience of impaired humanity……

As I feel the rope tightening round my neck,
I enjoy the painful bliss;
I pass into the unknown-
Nameless .
Weak.
Stripped of respect ,
Of dignity,
Of all things human.

In a lonely place succumbs.
To my childhood till this day.
Carves the age of longevity.
When colors were once remained.
Blue captured eyes like fame.
Streets pathed along the way—
Guiding to a melancholy lane.

In times of November breeze.
Boat by boat each one sail's,
The building's growing moss—
that cries the tears of rain.
Slipping like a sultry state,
Washing what can never stay.
Filling through but twas too late.

To the race walking in romans.
Sparkles every narrative palm.
Marigolds that lead their way,
The cold traded from warm.
Everybody's longing a friend.
Dark night was a weeping tomb,
In places were life meets the end.