"illustration" poems
Justify the real illustration on the pastel, this is a painting festival live your thoughts and ideas and dreams. Illuminate the night, stretch the light and make the night turn white. The luminous charm didn't work this time, I'm fine but let's look for something neat to see, so we can look harder and harder and harder, nice to know we went farther and farther than we knew we could, so picked my rain coat and yelled hey looks like rain and rain came down.
The thunder preyed on the sky and all we saw was light and we went higher,higher,higher and higher, higher, higher and higher, higher, higher and the Highlands seeked all in sight was light and the sky sighed out grief and died from the white light
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 10:17 PM UTC
I picked a flower in May just to watch her blossom all for myself
Beautiful and brilliant I sat her in a glass on a shelf
I added water so she wouldn't go dry
Magnificence such as hers I couldn't let die
I watched as she grew
Time flew and flew
Her petals orange and blue like a vanilla sky
As she prospered and danced I noticed a change
Something very strange that caught my eye
Her stems became vines intertwined simultaneously with my poetry and life
In place of green,
She overflowed out of the glass in white sheets of paper
And it was there she made her illustration so divine
A perfect drawing of a heart
That turned out to be mine
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
Somehow I scrounge through these jumbled words in my notebooks and I piece together this puzzle.
When connected it forms some idea of who I am - my brain... my heart...
it personifies my existence, so to speak.
Although, like all puzzles even when put together as a whole to form a landscape or object,
the cracks from the pieces are still present...
Now, from afar people wouldn't notice these cracks -
these blemishes in the photo,
but like a collage when up close, it becomes more evident -
the imperfections become more radiant or profound...
The glue so to speak for this picture of words - this illustration of life would be -
it is those cracks, those blemishes that make a puzzle - a puzzle... and a person - a person.
Each individual, as everyone knows, has different life experiences, different scars to form different pieces to make up their own unique puzzle.
One piece may be interpreted through skills or hobbies and another with goals.
Each and every second of a persons' life could ultimately be a piece of a puzzle.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC
I feel like he was created just for me.
I think im holding hands with Destiny.
He Encourages me to be The Woman The Father has presdestined me to be.
Hes like a dream given unto me.
He sees straight thru me like he can hear my thoughts telephatically.
Got me fiening for him like jodeci
Plunging into the depths of his soul's love as I enjoy The journey of his story....
Hes The Instructor of love and Im the student thinking critically.
He has left An impact on my life tremedously.....
Im drowning in his love ever so endlessly.
He is Waves from the oceans currents of
pure bliss
And I......I am his ocean shore that his waters of love kiss.
He's like a precious treaure I have discovered.
Unlocking the chest to look inside and see what I have uncovered.
Im happy for what I have found
Hes A King worthy of Sparkling crown.
I wish I could wear his love Like a White Flowing Wedding Gown.
I feel he completes me like a sentence Yah is the subject, He's the predicate and im the noun.
With his words he painted a vivid picture of me
Its a picture with definition, depth, and clarity.
Its almost like he captured every little detail so Carefully.
As if I were an image of an angel made so Heavenly.
Apparently,
In his eyes Im a portrait crafted very delicately.
A beauty constructed with integrity.
Sparkling like the waters of the deep blue sea.
To Be held in The Artistic nature of his Creativity
Is a Wonderful sight to see
With his poetry I see The illustration of his spiritual Imagery
I caressed the Compassion of his vibes that discerned The ambience of his Frequency.
His Energy Sweetly Speaks so pleasntly
His Diction shows me his style Musically.
His wisdom shows the level of his Maturity
And it makes me drawn to him as if Its a force was pulling me closer into his gravity
Ill admit this experience is kind of scary
But My lovely Beautiful Mahogany
theres no place I rather be than with you standing by my side next to me.
Feeling as if I am Soaring like a bird so Free.
He Surely bring out the Best characteristics of me.
I Believe Im Subconsciously holding hands with destiny
#destiny #serendipity #Love #beauty
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
I sat down
to draw
a picture
of you.
It grew
so expansive,
so beautifully,
colossal;
I fell in love
all over
again.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 11:57 PM UTC
grey and worn
the lawn chair has dead leaves stuck to it
its one bent arm an expression of pained indifference
mud clings to its feet
and a single vine like a thin snake
wraps its way across its frame seeking the sun
i pull at it to set the chair right
to seat myself
and **** at the breeze from the open field
marvel that a cow stands not five feet away
silently watching my every move with a wary eye
lunching on the grass and ****
but the chair now uprooted from its long held position
seems more than ever a proclamation
of mans intent to be seated here on heavens lawn
clear illustration of the intent that you are supposed to
take this bent greasy seat
sit at your leasuire
in the bountiful sunshine
it is one of a dozen in the field
in this beautiful slice of heaven
the lawn chairs
litter the field like broken teeth
set in a line that wanders across the wilderness growth
each having suffered from years standing in the open field
two almost completely consumed by bushes
one had been tossed into the tree
where time had swallowed it into the bark
this broken and brutalized fence of chairs
these lawn chairs of heaven's field
sit in this beautiful place some would say eyesore
i say artwork of life's randomness...
what party of fools once sat here
dressed no doubt for the occasion
perhaps celebrating
perhaps mourning
then got up from these plastic seats
and left them behind as testament
to that forgotten day...
so i sit in heavens lawn chair
a mute salutation to my unknown compatriots
who painted this pastoral scene
of plastic in a field
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
the nature of this night
spreads its thin harvest upon my table
a gruel and water porridge feast
with the fanfares of her jaundiced hand
many more lined up with eager grin
for the warmth of paupers kinship
thin blanket wrapped round our shoulders
snow gathers at feet
she captures the moment on paper
the image of all of us gathered like when we were young
the grandiose illustration
with its brilliant colour fanfare with
jugglers and wine swilling laughing men blinded by drink
chorus line of female dancers who wear costumes of the hundred years war
lead the assault on the last bastions of the ignorance of bliss
all descrying that we can ill afford to be sleeping
while empires are built in our namesake
the so daintily shod soldiers whos feminine wiles misunderstood
have taken over the dancehall beneath us
and have taken up song
the grandiose illustration
caught by her pen on sketch pad
has leanings to the Marxist revolutions
and philosophys of the rhetorical
but in the end we join them and
drink the port sing the song
a thousand years of tales to be told
in the eyes of a single girls sweet thoughts
epic landscapes filled with noble men and storybook girls
the grandiose illustration
shows the two of us on the beach
with the sun racing down to touch the high towers of miami
and fill the laughing joys of thouse who toss and
tumble in the breaking waves
the nature of this night
in one small corner of the illustration
a simple window with the shade drawn
that says goodnight
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Infinity's Mirror by Nat Lipstadt
Two mirrors, set in opposition observe created notional blending,
a reflecting pool of bonding's of unglued, contrary compositions.
Mirror to mirror, his imagery, fuses to Sylvia's images, hers,
faintly recollected, now living face, face to face, with his past insurrections, alters his future visions.
From cold water lake she's drawn, impaled by refracting regrets,
retrieved, drawing her words upon him, an awakening slap to drink,
beloved, tragic magic, infinitely captive. But this old man's tiddlywinks, land-locked words, blunted instruments, needy for release & salvation, are neither silvered or exacting, just stains on a dulled, tarnished brass spittoon, except for the brunt'd bunting of lines across his roughened terrain'd face, black and white, pen and ink etched illustration of howling agitation.
His words worn down, hardened, red faced, purloined speckled pellets, damp to roll on down her rutted, almost ancient, tear streak paths, disbelieved superstitions, sacrificed for one of her living morsels of words.
Man, here to her, pledges allegiance, audaciously defiling her poetic sanctity, a visage endless repeated, delivers her shiny poem-poised countenance, even though no forgiveness from time can a mirror afford for either, from her words, confession born, terrible truths beyond, beyond the finite.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mirror by Sylvia Plath
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
Here comes The Change
That has the range
Of emotions
And demotions
And devotions
Of a perilous populous
That likes to raise a fuss
When they eventually learn who I am
And treat me like I'm the Son of Sam
To be specific
They discover I'm gay
And begin to filet
My mentality
In totality
For fatality
Merely by acting differently
If my sexuality isn't the first thing people know about me
I get to witness The Change
Like a dog with mange
I am shedding my hair
While screaming no fair
Because of the shift I see
Because of the **** I need
To make my heart bleed
There is a steady bellowing burdensome baggage
From those that want to ****** some *******
So I search for weight lifters
But only find shapeshifters
That become great grifters
When The Change occurs
And The Change burns
So The Change turned
Me into an interdimensional changeling
And an unintentional rage king
After they use words like flaming
Because the results are so draining
It becomes hard not to hate people
Who are inspired by hate steeples
They say I'm going to Hell
While I notice the smell
Of being buried in their banal ****
While they play their greatest hits
That are as unoriginal
As they are cynical
They say I'm a degenerate
An embarrassment
A parent's lament
I want to change into a carefree bird
Instead I stay in Hell with the herd
Wanting to escape like Lupin the Third
Rather than be oppressed like the Kurds
But there is no relief
Only re-grief
When changes aren't permanent
But The Change is
There's an illustration of my life
That will change your perspective
The picture is in my words
When the painting is what I choose to say
And the canvas is your mind
Whose textures I could never imagine
So I jump off a cliff blindfolded
Expecting to be changed once I land
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 6:13 AM UTC
709
Publication—is the Auction
Of the Mind of Man—
Poverty—be justifying
For so foul a thing
Possibly—but We—would rather
From Our Garret go
White—Unto the White Creator—
Than invest—Our Snow—
Thought belong to Him who gave it—
Then—to Him Who bear
Its Corporeal illustration—Sell
The Royal Air—
In the Parcel—Be the Merchant
Of the Heavenly Grace—
But reduce no Human Spirit
To Disgrace of Price—
2.9k
I was once God's Picasso painting
(the Guernica era).
Chuck Jones' illustration
of the tortured artist,
laid out like Wile E. Coyote
on a bed of scalding rocks
and a white flag screaming "SURRENDER"
clenched with both palms.
If it were feasible,
I'd have dove head first
into the smoky center of the sun
if it meant my audience understood
the shrieking woes I had to bellow through
to reach their overwhelmed palates.
But Tragedy is the sitcom foil
that has long outstayed its menopausal welcome,
and I would much prefer a haunting.
To Hell with those
who repulse the flies with
the vinegar of exploitation,
gawking as their spit seeps
through seven layers of collected scars,
who ventilate the wrists
to keep the audience comfortable.
Real aesthetic power
comes from a shower
of light hail on the spine,
the moments a ghostly hand
****** you on the finger
with quietly hidden truths
always whispered from a field away.
It's far more bracing,
the lump in the throat,
not the electrical gasp of shock.
It's a far greater sign
of a forthcoming apocalypse,
the angel weeping in pain,
not the footsteps
of the wailing banshee.
The wisp
over the wallop.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:56 AM UTC
dragon’s flames
rubber bands and blank paper sheets
a pair of ***** red sneakers
black and white keys
thick, old books
crumpled paper
a box of paints
pencil shavings
shades of gray
stacks of cds
dog-eared magazines
ancient stuffed toys
newspapers from two months ago
ninja gear and beyblades
a box of keychains
picture-plastered walls
last week’s jeans
yesterday’s jacket
ballpens with no ink
worn out satin slippers
an overused waveboard
loose change and
illustration boards
all found in
my room
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 3:56 AM UTC
He was one of those guys who marry money.
And you can grok that in any sense you desire.
But be forewarned, my friend,
I am well-versed in a multitude of
Marry-For-Money manifestations.
Take, for example, marrying the Boss' daughter.
Come with me, for illustration's sake,
Join me in one such dis-functional household:
George & Martha's place on campus--
A classic Tudor-revival home,
Ivied & plushly-appointed,
A coveted faculty perk
Which goes along with the gig.
And the gag, for that matter.
I speak, of course, of Edward Albee's
Two perversely miserable humans,
Married to each other, to wit:
George & Martha, leading lives of
Pubis-scratching desperation, in
"Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?"
She's the only daughter--
Daddy's precious jewel--
Only girl-child of the President
Of a small, rural college.
He's the middle-aged professor
With no great pedagogic or research prowess.
His working-class perspective,
Viewing the quiet academic life to be
A significant step up in genteel existence.
Except--and there's the rub:
Mere existence is a far cry from
Living the good life Dan Draper &
The rest of Satan's Mad Men minions
Taught him to take for granted.
So George & Martha,
In terms of core values,
Have little in common;
More like opposites, in fact:
His starvation diet as a child &
Her helping out Mom at the
Food Bank on Saturday mornings.
It's those formative razzmatazz years,
He lacked the behavior blueprint,
The overwhelming fatigue of acting.
He's perpetually memorizing lines,
Practicing ****** expressions &
Physical gestures & phrases.
Guard up, another Oscar-worthy performance,
Burton is superb & Elizabeth Taylor
Showing us precisely why she is &
Will continue to be revered as an actress.
George knows she has his number.
The thing about the play is the
Intense malice the couple feel for each other.
For the audience, an experience in stage drama
Best classified as an intensely painful morality play.
A good thing to remember: Live Theater
Adds value to a community.
Give generously, please!
But I digress.
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 12:27 AM UTC
Look out here
It comes
Sum of someone's sums
Perverse calculation
Trigonometry as sensation
Graphic illustration
Of a pre-ordained mathematic
Desire
Intersexual intellectual
Pythagorean triangle of lust Figures
Add and attract
Add and subtract
Add and subtract
This physical abstract
To form the total goal
To fit the math of a
Human hole
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 6:15 PM UTC
Maybe the way the curve of your spine fits into me is an indication
of how the earth meets the sea.
Frothing, frigid and free
Maybe the way our lips convene is an illustration
of a star being born
Colliding, rising, expanding
With every breath we whisper to each other
the wind caresses the mountains in such delicate manners
Maybe the way our eyes meet
searching for a long lost landmark
{Home at last,
or at least until tomorrow}
reveal the discovery of deeper mysteries
Cold, comforting, coalescent
Maybe the simplest brush of skin
brings earthquakes to our veins
Seeped with unspoken words
warmth and peril rolled in one
Maybe, just maybe, the first ****** between two lovers
is the modern tsunami,
a flood of pleasure, teeming with emotions and laughter
The rain that lulls us to sleep
is the same as the water that cascades down cracks and cliffs
Racing to meet her soulmate,
Salt water
Fresh water
Two hearts beat in solidarity
Melting one into the other
Tongue on tongue
Fingertip to fingertip
Maybe the way we started is the way we end,
with nothing but empty space and deafening silence.
Jan 18, 2018
Jan 18, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC
It's funny how I always think of you,
as my sanctuary, someone I can run back to,
and tell that "I love you,"
But all there is a wonderful raconteur
that filled you with alluring words and beauty
All you are is a piece of art;
an illustration of imagination
I am head over heels for you
despite knowing how troublesome;
it is to me
In the end, all I can say--is that;
"She is my Wonderwall,"
Apr 20, 2021
Apr 20, 2021 at 8:57 PM UTC
Paul, he likes his lighters and his spoon
“Taste that kerosene.” he offers
‘Nah, I’m cool.’
There are people running naked in the street
This one girl, she slipped
Her blood becoming a perfect illustration of a fractal as it mixed with the rain water
Snaking through the leaves
Trickling to the gutter
On its way to the sea
Lucky blood
I wish it was me
I hold the syringe up to the light
Double checking I got it right
And I wonder, in this moment, what you would think of me?
“So then” Paul slides down the wall to the floor
Legs spread in a V, he winks at me
Like a drunken ********** offering more
“What’s your poison?”
****** But don’t get excited Paul, that’s not what I’m here for.’
I expose his skin, and let the needle sink in
“You used to be such a good girl. Goody goody.”
He laughs from his spot on the floor
“Goody; such a weird word. But that’s what you were.”
I recap the needle, carefully now
"What happened to you, Goody? What?” He twitches and slides down more
‘The hospital would be more suited for you, ya know.'
I pack up his insulin, store it back in the fridge.
‘Okay Paul. I’ll be back in the morning. Try not to OD again.’
“Goody Goody.” He laughs up at me from his spot on the floor.
“Goody Goody, that’s what you were.”
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 1:31 AM UTC
"I always wanted to wander."
"To wander? To where?"
"From Walla Walla to Uganda."
"That's a wide world to wander!"
"You wanna?"
"Wanna what?"
"To wander?"
"To where, Uganda?"
"Youbetcha!"
"I don't want to onomatopoeia anymore!"
"Are you refusing me?"
"You're confusing me!"
"Do I do that usually?"
"Yes, and it's abusing me!
"I didn't used to be."
"But you see it's no use to me,
So start talking lucidly!
You're coming across abstrusely
By talking so loosely.
You've got a lot of 'splaining to do Lucy."
"It started out grand!"
"But quickly got out of hand."
"But you fail to understand."
"You should have planned."
"Is that a reprimand?"
"You're like the ampersand."
"I don't understand."
"It means 'and per se and';
The pronunciation became bland
And three Latin words became 'ampersand'."
"But, don't you need a vacation?"
"What is the relation?"
"It's a matter of pronunciation,
And sometimes punctuation.
Some words deserve elimination.
Yes, and some deserve illumination.
Thus my original illustration.
In the interest of communication,
Some things deserve enunciation."
"I will accept that explanation."
"But, I'm still hugely fond of
The two of us going to Uganda;
As we internationally wander
I'm sure it will make you fonder
The more the two of us wander."
"But I really don't wanna!"
"Don't wanna what?"
"Go to Uganda!"
"That's what you don't wanna?"
"You betcha!"
"It's okay. They probably won't letcha."
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 1:08 PM UTC
Gauge Symmetry
It was an eminent arrival: to awake in a definite
location in time and space, involving the single
***** with more zeal than the rest. But where
am I really? Staring at these thorny lines engraved
in my palm during an hour I should be asleep.
I can’t help but think that the love of a life
should have spared me.
A caption below the photograph in the times reads
It’s an illustration of a tactic employed by Hezbollah
and Hamas to use their own civilians as human shields.
And somewhere else laying on rubble, once road, a blood
smeared newspaper ruffles in the breeze, then violently
unfolds from a burst of wind, never to be read, a stray dog
licking a wound pauses and perks it’s ear.
Earlier, in the library I walked the spiral staircase
and traced my fingers down a dusty spine:
“How
we
became
Post-Human”.
It must have been an artificial insemination.
My skull throbs from an inoperable legion
of fractal thoughts which I developed upon listening
to the sounding tremble in Pathetique, too immature
to know the power of what it heard like that time
I foolishly laid my eyes on a carnivorous
tulip, it spat me out alive.
Moon is no comfort, only an aperture. The day
is overexposed and my eyelids clasp
down like a shutter, I try to fall asleep
to remember where I really am and where
I've always been.
Jul 14, 2011
Jul 14, 2011 at 7:56 AM UTC
Day eleven, I'm missing you
and I'm feeling like sinning,
maybe I should start from the clement beginning.
Day one, I see no more sun for I am alone
contemplating how I accrete age
and how many seeds I have sown.
Day two, palimpsest problems
weigh in heavy on my choices
and my mind has many voices.
Day three please don't look inside hollow me,
the pregnant wasteland of my heart
has been growing ruin from the very start.
Day four and out all my emotions pour,
I'm breathless from a sight of you
and my whole world returns anew.
Day five is crepuscular in nature, a perpetually playful night,
authored by your omnific fingers
and hidden behind the curtain, a sun just out of sight.
Day six, I've uncovered a skeleton making me love you even more
and I asseverate promises,
becoming blurred by family uproar.
Day seven is driven by a sensation of imbrication
and we know an end is coming,
lost in the easy salvation.
Day eight starts with our bodies huddled and our minds muddled,
you are a plagiary of my emotions
forgotten in loo of body illustration and soul cultivation.
Day nine is propelled by the intoxication of an end,
conclusion of what extent?
and filled with eristic thoughts of surrender to this utopian ascent.
Day ten and you're caught,
in my arms is where you ought to be,
and I keep hearing how just awakened you sought for me.
Jul 2, 2010
Jul 2, 2010 at 9:56 AM UTC
i would compromise
--i compromise. i appear to i mean,
with peace-demeanor customized for show
paraded there and there, obeisant nonsense
in a confidence of meek to render compliments
crowding infancies of all
for the sake of art
i bend my frame about cliche
to have a human dragon claim
"the real persists unknown"
and gather at a sacred dolmen
fascinating morals sung beneath the stars and sun--
you said there was a butterfly
tasting at my skull, shaking with uncommon music too..
its skinny, immigrant feet abuzz
within the world they called a One, wings on pause, my eyebrows in flight.
a blanket iris cries warmth
in clusters hung ripe, filming over all
a native ceremonial, falsepolitik
i pluck at them atop a fence
obscure for comforts masking truth
discarded, found, fashioned
into furniture for candled houses
built with children's sons
where families try to see
a clearing in the warping
mirrors saddled with a dripping time no illustration comprehends
. wooden beams help it rise and dim,
the sunny lie, genuinely fake,
authentic trick of aeons hidden in the true
-- growing young, stemming back
to foil brighter undiscoveries for otherwisely
patient basements full of heirlooms,
sheik dining areas all
nodding over cheap wine we still manage to squint up at nothing at
in apple layers
symbolizing tidy crimes invented ceaselessly,
serving existential voids--
grace, fall, stumble catch
acquired tones of oak or berry--
other fruits would do, or none,
as i still feel
praised by your rejections --
when indifference gains a sweetness
like a novel vengeance won
i am indulging villainy
workshopping staling norms,
garden dark as cultivated loam.
where i am words
mooding intellect to torment,
faun complexity awry
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
If your face were a barn
You'd have swallows
Coming 'n going out a ya nose.
And your hands:
If they were a bridge
You'd have pigeons
Cock-walking 'n cooing
In the web's of your skin.
And your hair!
It's already a nest,
Fringe all around
With a crocodile egg topp'n ya up there.
*Exaggerated physical illustration encouraged
Dec 11, 2010
Dec 11, 2010 at 1:59 PM UTC
He wore nothing other than black even in the summer, his crystal blue eyes reflected ocean-hues and had jet black ink that could slightly be seen under the sleeve of his tattered and torn Rolling Stones tee. That boy, he was quite a mystery, had the body language of a jigsaw puzzle not wanting to be mended, although it was all opaque to me, others saw him impenetrable, however, I read him like my favorite book. This boy is exactly like me intelligent yet covert, impassive and esoteric yet a universe full of secrets and unspoken thoughts. It seemed as if his soul was somber and consumed nothing but vacuity. But I saw a masterpiece, a messily painted work of art, and that was the beauty of it. Others saw chaos on a canvas while I saw every watercolored hue that completed the exotic illustration that was, Luke.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC
I remember the day you came into school with fresh slits on your wrists
You had written your world into your own flesh and skin.
Those lines created the pages by which I used to write down our story.
Those cuts displayed every flaw our relationship ever endured.
And I will always remember the day you kissed me
Telling me, begging me not to worry about you.
Telling me the drawings of blood were "nothing"
Telling me you loved me.
To this day, I am left overflowing with questions.
Did it hurt?
Did it make you feel free?
Did it make you feel alive?
Did it make you feel?
But more than anything, I want to know why you chose me.
And my god, I wish this was some poetic analogy for something beautifully tragic.
I wish this was some secret I was too afraid to utter.
But it's not.
And I wish that I had never seen such a horrific sight
Because those scars were not beautiful to me.
They weren't something to be romanticized
They weren't something to be loved.
Because every inch of your punctured skin was a nightmare for me.
I relive that moment every day of my life.
That image forever trapped within the confines of my skull.
And I will always remember the day you left me.
Again and again we fell together.
I held my pain in so deep it created canyons in the breaks on my heart.
But you.
You wore your pain like a badge of honor
You paraded your scars like they were trophies
But they were more than that.
They were a scare tactic that was suffocating me
A plot to force out every ounce of my love for you
A way to blackmail me into staying with you.
And my god I loved you.
And I could have loved you until the day I died.
But I couldn't see past it.
I Couldn't see past the traumatic illustration set before me
past the illustration that stopped my heart beating in my chest.
And I will never forget the day you walked up to me and showed me a display
Of my initials carved into the skin of your forearm.
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 1:50 AM UTC
*Nature welcomes you with an embrace
The wind playfully caresses you
And the crescent moon still visible
And the sun playing hide-n-seek
About to rise, coloring the flaming sky
In the amphitheater of celestial sphere
There is the drama unfolding of a new day
All the spectators, waking to the spectacular
Applauding, as a tribute to the grand illustration
Of abstract paintings, with a rich hue
Dawning on us whith a new plot to enact
The sunrise guiding us with a new ray of hope
Birds leading the way, helping us dream
To reach higher and cross new horizons
I am also a spectator in the crowd
Thronging to face life, as new day has dawned*
© Amitav (Radiance)
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC