You are made of poems.
yet beautifully written,
plunging into the abyss
of a lost soul.
You are a symphony of sounds.
yet a soothing lullaby.
You are bursting with flowers.
yet wonderfully blossoming,
oozing with sunshines,
rainbows, and butterflies.
I am going to,
touch your soul,
watch it burst
on your veins,
Create a ruckus,
a chaos, a mess
deep inside you.
Chase away autumn,
the falling leaves,
and withering trees.
Melt away winter,
thaw the ice
around the surface,
Honey, I just want to
back into you.
She was valiantly soaring in the sky,
Gliding so effortlessly through the air.
Dancing in circles where clouds cry,
Drifting towards the sun's striking stare.
A storm of unkindness is brewing,
A sea of emotions is surging.
Poor, little, scrawny bird.
Wings were shot to hell,
Stumbling down to nothingness.
Crashing down where broken ships dwell,
Humming a sound so far from happiness.
Forlorn sky - bluest of blues;
A cosmic, black pit.
Grounds - desolated, old.
Mosses sprouting; here it is,
Sad, withering tree.
An uncanny resemblance;
Beseeching for life.
Hearing soothing lullabies,
whilst uttering fervent goodbyes.
One step closer to the ledge,
waves crashing beneath the ledge.
The ocean's enthralling tranquility,
renders an unyielding sense of solidity.
Its calmness besieges every single vein,
and deliberately permeates through my brain,
What you see beneath the ledge seems enchanting,
and a desolate voice down below is beseeching,
unceasingly lulling someone to come to his rescue.
Oh, perhaps this is my cue!
Rocks creaking, tides screeching,
Hearts wistfully shattering.
All she had in mind was jumping.
And then, time is suddenly frozen,
for the girl who was eternally broken.
“Everything is going to be okay,”*
she told herself, as she simply stared
at the trail of shimmering lights beneath her.
Dreadful, horrendous, unwanted late night thoughts,
certainly warrant an enormous deep black pit of sadness.
And when the night finally falls, she constantly shuns
and tries so hard to weasel her way out of it.
But there is no escaping the inevitable.
Only if someone can get a momentarily glimpse
of the tangibly thick forlorn coat
she obliviously wears every single day.
Then maybe, just maybe, someone can fully understand
the scars embedded through her inanimate frame.
— The End —