From the depths of my pain,
you have shown me that beautiful flowers
grow in the midst
of the cosmic chaos I was in.
You were the twinkling spark,
the light in the shadows of my sadness,
the encouraging voice that metamorphose
my black and white world into something kaleidoscopic.
You sifted the specks of dust
that revealed the darkest secrets I hid.
You were the sun that illuminated
during the twilight of my incoherent thoughts.
I was composed of the ephemera of depression,
the hushed air between my teeth
when my lips were sealed.
I remember the time you told me,
things will get better.
I sighed and responded,
I don’t think so.
I thought you were going to give up
for I was stroppy, cumbersome teenager
but instead, you smiled;
you morphed my cynical perspective
into a superlative of optimism.
Every time my voice trembled
with the curse of anxiety,
your words nursed my soul
casting me with courage.
Your words I kept,
in hollow crystallised bottles,
like encapsulated messages of importance.
Spilled thoughts were the reminiscent
of my favourite brisk days with you,
filling the fragments of my loneliness.
I seem to be on the sentence
of the last paragraph where you wrote:
things will get better.
written in the crisps pages
of my sad blues chapter,
dipped in ink;
I believe and trust you wholly,
because things do become better, no matter what.
You were always there for me,
if only you knew how much that meant to me.
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 9:00 AM UTC
From the depths of my pain,
you have shown me that beautiful flowers
grow in the midst
of the cosmic chaos I was in.
You were the twinkling spark,
the light in the shadows of my sadness,
the encouraging voice that metamorphose
my black and white world into something kaleidoscopic.
You sifted the specks of dust
that revealed the darkest secrets I hid.
You were the sun that illuminated
during the twilight of my incoherent thoughts.
I was composed of the ephemera of depression,
the hushed air between my teeth
when my lips were sealed.
I remember the time you told me,
things will get better.
I sighed and responded,
I don’t think so.
I thought you were going to give up
for I was stroppy, cumbersome teenager
but instead, you smiled;
you morphed my cynical perspective
into a superlative of optimism.
Every time my voice trembled
with the curse of anxiety,
your words nursed my soul
casting me with courage.
Your words I kept,
in hollow crystallised bottles,
like encapsulated messages of importance.
Spilled thoughts were the reminiscent
of my favourite brisk days with you,
filling the fragments of my loneliness.
I seem to be on the sentence
of the last paragraph where you wrote:
things will get better.
written in the crisps pages
of my sad blues chapter,
dipped in ink;
I believe and trust you wholly,
because things do become better, no matter what.
You were always there for me,
if only you knew how much that meant to me.
A poem I wrote not long ago for a mother-figure who I always look up to for the endless list of things she did to salvage me from the madness in my head.
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