Morning collapses into night with emotions scattered on the ground here we are kneeling down picking up the pieces, throwing them into pools of midnight This bitter honey sleeps on my tongue my words unfiltered build static charge in these exchanges through which this current flows I'm left wondering, if within your eyes I can find the pain that you disguise if i can pull it out from this reservoir of sunset dyes and stain it with the words I left inside will it bloom into the flowers we would pick and laugh over to hide the butterflies circling this unknown that we once denied?
Started this one a few days ago but couldn't get it to come out right so I never finished it. Not sure if it's right, it probably *****, but it's finished! ;p Been kinda slow to write anything lately, and I've fallen behind my own internal challenge, but oh well. Depression has been ringing my bell like a prize-fighter whose mother I just insulted. Viciously insulted, apparently. Ahl be bahk.
Of all the loves in the history of the world, ours was a one that could not be.
Like a newborn child dying the moment it is born, like a flower dropping to the ground the moment it blooms, like a fire put off the moment it begins burning,
Our affections were robbed of a life!
But maybe that is why, this blank space, this nothingness would cherish our love... Because out of all the loves that stood, ours stood out more.
It was not a smooth trail of ink that took the shape of letters. It was a blot of ink, a gigantic one that could not take a form and yet left behind a stain for the world to remember-Of a love that stirred hearts only to put them to sleep!
My mother told me to leave my mark wherever I went. When I asked her what did she mean, She told me, How she wanted me to leave my name and my brand as a symbol and signature of my 'identity'.
'Identity', how would it look like... Will it be tall so that it can reach success even without climbing up. Will it be hour-glass with curves large enough to be liked. Will it be fair so that it can be lonely too. Will it be rich so that it can purchase Bugatti and Bentley. Will it be smart so that it can create its success if it is not provided with any. Will it be beautiful so that it can make people stop and stare. Will it be kind so that it heals and saves what has been killed. Or will it be soft so that it weighs every word before it speaks?
But then my mother told me your identity is 'you'. But I cannot become my identity because I am not a signature to be looked at or a mark to be left.
So when I looked up in the dictionary I found how mark is synonymous for 1.Stain that I got on my sweatpant this morning. 2.Bruise that has covered my neck like a mosaic painting. 3.Scratch that has been carved on my legs by my own hands. 4.Blemish that I have thrown on my parent's name and 'identity'. 5.Blot that has covered my pages and hands because my pen is broken. 6.Scar that stays on my heart. 7.Label that I have put on myself and let others call me by it. 8.Identity that I do not have.
My mother told me to leave my mark wherever I went. But, wherever I went, I gained one.