(1) This world ain't a place so perfect. It holds the sky with all its blue, lets the children paint parts of it that fall, blue and hands down the fallen blue back to the sky, keeping some for itself.
If only blues pour heavier, will it get back volumes more. But, at times, only a sirimiri finds its way down and the sky leaves with nothing more blue to sway forward.
(2) This pain ain't a poet so perfect. It bangs my head against the wall, lets poems get written on its name and hands down the fallen poems back to the drafts, taking away some words with it, for people to go in search to find complete sense.
If only free verses find its way out of pain, will it leave back at least a few lines. But, at times, only a haiku remain after bangs, leaving only a syllable or two with more days in search of pain for sense.
(3) This mistake ain't a teacher so perfect. It whispers lessons to the immediate realisers, lets books with lessons untaught, open on the desk and hands them down to the wind that apologise too soon, for me to chase the feet of it all around the places I've never known to exist.
If only they were hardcovers, will I be able to get back up picking up my pencil from under the desk to tick off chapters, before the wind comes in. But, at times, only paperbacks find their way to me and I'd have no time to get a pencil to strike.
(4) What does stays perfect never stays at all. What does stays not perfect, stays all along. Anything perfect isn't for me. Anything perfect, is never me.
— Sapphire Stella
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Beautiful Lies
ПоэзияThis world we live in is so-filled with beauty and enigma. This is a place, fantasized with beauty, beauty of everything. Pain, sorrow, anger, desperation, loss, lies, everything. Everything here is beautiful. And, this world revolves a lot about l...
