At times, my mind is a garden
where sweet memories bloom all day,
red roses in the name of lost lovers
and white lillies for the friends that stay.
Other times, it's like a jungle.
It's wild, and I get lost in here
between the canopies of my thoughts
and the thorns of my own fear.
On some nights it becomes a park,
So I take a break from my routines
and walk barefoot on its grasses
that grow untamed, just like my dreams.
Though it all just makes me wonder
whether it's a forest, garden or park.
But nonetheless, good things will grow here,
So on my new journeys, I will embark.
You begged me,
to fall in love with the
So I could get
accustomed to having all of
but then, none
at all too..
In my head, I have a chaotic mind.
In my chest, a broken heart.
But aren't all these dark and broken things
the ones that inspire art?
The things I have inside me,
they can build storms and hurricanes.
You think that blood runs through me
but I hide madness in my veins.
My demons dance to the music,
my angels have loved to sing.
To you, it isn't melodic,
to me, it's a beautiful thing.
The winds of winter are cold.
The snowflakes fall and freeze,
upon a world that's even colder,
than the coldest winter breeze.
This world is dark and bitter,
It taught us to cut our wings,
to use people whom we should love,
and rather love all useless things.
But even snowflakes have the courage
to fall in this world, and melt,
than giving up to its coldness
and spread the warmth it never felt.
So can't you be a little sowflake,
can't you be like melting snow,
that ends a cold today
and brings a warmer tomorrow?
My mother whispered me good night,
told me sweet dreams come true,
but my mother did not know that
my nightmares were dreams too.
And they were the truest reality,
all those nightmares that I saw,
where gunshots were the music
for those who broke the law.
That night I saw empty streets
because all the people were just dead
as blood dried on their bodies
in different hues of red.
So I woke up from my nightmare
and my mother heard me scream.
She cried because our reality
was not different than my dream.
We saw guns pointed to throats,
and heard all the big bomb blasts.
So I wait for the day when all these things,
will be ashes of the past.
I am sure you love when it rains,
when the drops fall off the sky,
when you watch them racing down
from clouds too heavy and high.
But do you see what those clouds do
when they pour down all the rain?
They let go what weighs them down
so they can swim in the sky again.
You too are like a cloud,
but you have been heavy for too long
because for you sorrow is weakness
and you just want to be strong.
So you hide all of your tears,
lock down all of the pain.
But if you want the clear skies,
Let your tears be like the rain.
Don't keep the weight you carry,
let it go in the tears you cry,
and once the rains are over,
You'll see a rainbow in the sky.
The night is your lullaby
that seranades you to sleep,
while for me it is the darkness
that forces me to weep.
I know you will be worried,
because my tears carry my pain,
but the drops are almost beautiful,
like the ones from clouds of rain.
But I cry because I feel,
and I feel, so I try to write
about my wounds deeper and darker,
than the quiet, melancholic night.
So I stay awake and use my ink,
for all those words I may never say.
The night may not have a sun,
but it's always a writer's day.