Tired hand;
painting the canvas,
messing the colour,
shredded the paper,
again,
again and,
again.
Curving the line,
dotting the line,
a never ending line,
with no destination.
Stopping.
Letting the brush fall,
and tears are falling too
for feelings are fictitious ,
for feelings are inspiration,
for feelings had long gone since you left.
She is neither a painter nor a poet,
but with you-
feelings aren't an imitation,
lips aren't heavy to curl,
but with you-
she's breathing,
both in life and poem.
Nowadays,
her paper is just a mess,
scribble here and there,
for without feelings,
numbness rose conquering the figure.
What to paint,
when there's nothing to imagine?
What to write,
when there's nothing to hope?
Repetitious scribble of mad words consumed by agony and bittersweet taste,
flair long gone, witty sank.
Come back,
for you are my world,
fiction or reality.
-a.
ANDA SEDANG MEMBACA
F R A G I L E
PoetryFragile ['fradʒʌɪl] •(of a person) not strong or sturdy; delicate and vulnerable. -Prose, Poetry, Poem & Short Story. _______________________________ "Ini lirik jiwa nyanyi Tulisan aku suka sembunyi Kerana mereka tak faham apa yang mereka nyan...
