Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Tags
#lonesomenights
She wrote like she was struggling to breathe, like she was running after a train barefooted on railway tracks in the middle of winter, shivering shuddering, holding on to nothing at all but being held by screaming words tugging at her feet and biting into the ridges on her fingers She wrote like all the clocks in the world had come to a stand still, though days continued to pass, like the fluttering pages of an abandoned book in the midst of a raging storm She wrote sometimes like hail, pattering against steel-coated frozen rooftops, falling against doors left ajar bruising faces which taught her, how to shoot bullets At other times, she wrote like a gentle breeze, like the scent of rosewater and jasmine, and dirt lovingly caressed by morning dewdrops, and her words, they sometimes danced across paper, swaying with a trace of a brief smile, and then they fell with a thud, giggling in those sudden, fleeting moments of insanity, which make The Blissful incinerate themselves, into ashes which blow away in the wind And then at other times, her words were silent dark, brooding,  still, like the darkest corners of a rundown neighbourhood after midnight, like the dust which settles on suitcases filled with forgotten photographs, against the farthest wall of a quiet room . . . dark, brooding, still, like her soul, barred behind wood, engraved with the whispered words of the shadows of her fears.
0
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC
ramsha-ahmed
sciamachy.
She wrote like she was struggling to breathe, like she was running after a train barefooted on railway tracks in the middle of winter, shivering shuddering, holding on to nothing at all but being held by screaming words tugging at her feet and biting into the ridges on her fingers She wrote like all the clocks in the world had come to a stand still, though days continued to pass, like the fluttering pages of an abandoned book in the midst of a raging storm She wrote sometimes like hail, pattering against steel-coated frozen rooftops, falling against doors left ajar bruising faces which taught her, how to shoot bullets At other times, she wrote like a gentle breeze, like the scent of rosewater and jasmine, and dirt lovingly caressed by morning dewdrops, and her words, they sometimes danced across paper, swaying with a trace of a brief smile, and then they fell with a thud, giggling in those sudden, fleeting moments of insanity, which make The Blissful incinerate themselves, into ashes which blow away in the wind And then at other times, her words were silent dark, brooding,  still, like the darkest corners of a rundown neighbourhood after midnight, like the dust which settles on suitcases filled with forgotten photographs, against the farthest wall of a quiet room . . . dark, brooding, still, like her soul, barred behind wood, engraved with the whispered words of the shadows of her fears.
Continue reading...
40