A paper box filled with crumpled newspapers
Carrying death notes, attempted ****** stories
And the failed political agendas
(Failed I say for I personally see no difference).
Neatly stacked they would take
Only the bottom half of the box,
But since the papers were to be rid off,
And the papers carried blood,
Shoved were they like ***** secrets
In that plain paper box.
That action somehow now
Turned the box into a closet
Filled with dusty winter coats
From a life past,
The clothes might fit your body
But they won't fit your soul.
O' my friend added today
How she hasn't seen me in black
Since the last time I returned,
She said it as a fact,
But somehow that hurt and
It felt like fear- my mumbled ignorance.
The box lay in the middle of the room,
The room itself empty,
Sold were each artifact
Over the past few months,
To get back
What they had stolen in the first place.
I no longer fought when
My favourite tin can was taken,
It too had rattled the pockets,
It bled for our tummy.
The box lay out of place
Like all of us,
Trying relentlessly to fit in,
The balled up papers
Sticking out the *****
A triangle there and a lonely strip here.
I could read few words of different stories
And create a new lie,
But the lies seemed silly even for me,
I needed something else.
You might ask why not burn them,
Why not shred them,
But even fire creates smoke
And secrets never really die,
We always, always hide them,
Paint over them with lies.
So the box,
Now being there long enough,
Wasn't kicked over
Like the many times before,
It lay there, carefully maneuvered
By the liars and the sinners
Of the house.
But their breath stopped
Every time they walked into the room.
Like they didn't wish to inhale the dust
And the stories of the box,
Like their lungs would be infected
The same way their hearts were.
But the shameful box had secrets
Staining red over time, dripping blood
And spilling black soot of lies,
Flies buzzed around now and yet
Why did we not discard it,
I thought.
What was so special about our lies,
Our sins
That we keep the box around
And not hide it but be ashamed of it?
Why do we keep it in our homes still
If all it does is poison us?
Why do we keep our old loves
Alive in our memories?
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 11:00 AM UTC
A paper box filled with crumpled newspapers
Carrying death notes, attempted ****** stories
And the failed political agendas
(Failed I say for I personally see no difference).
Neatly stacked they would take
Only the bottom half of the box,
But since the papers were to be rid off,
And the papers carried blood,
Shoved were they like ***** secrets
In that plain paper box.
That action somehow now
Turned the box into a closet
Filled with dusty winter coats
From a life past,
The clothes might fit your body
But they won't fit your soul.
O' my friend added today
How she hasn't seen me in black
Since the last time I returned,
She said it as a fact,
But somehow that hurt and
It felt like fear- my mumbled ignorance.
The box lay in the middle of the room,
The room itself empty,
Sold were each artifact
Over the past few months,
To get back
What they had stolen in the first place.
I no longer fought when
My favourite tin can was taken,
It too had rattled the pockets,
It bled for our tummy.
The box lay out of place
Like all of us,
Trying relentlessly to fit in,
The balled up papers
Sticking out the *****
A triangle there and a lonely strip here.
I could read few words of different stories
And create a new lie,
But the lies seemed silly even for me,
I needed something else.
You might ask why not burn them,
Why not shred them,
But even fire creates smoke
And secrets never really die,
We always, always hide them,
Paint over them with lies.
So the box,
Now being there long enough,
Wasn't kicked over
Like the many times before,
It lay there, carefully maneuvered
By the liars and the sinners
Of the house.
But their breath stopped
Every time they walked into the room.
Like they didn't wish to inhale the dust
And the stories of the box,
Like their lungs would be infected
The same way their hearts were.
But the shameful box had secrets
Staining red over time, dripping blood
And spilling black soot of lies,
Flies buzzed around now and yet
Why did we not discard it,
I thought.
What was so special about our lies,
Our sins
That we keep the box around
And not hide it but be ashamed of it?
Why do we keep it in our homes still
If all it does is poison us?
Why do we keep our old loves
Alive in our memories?
Day by day I feel more like the box itself now.
(And those who still have a unscathed box,
Please take care of it).
