I looked up
I looked down
Observed everything around me,
observed everything before me.
Birds danced at the motion of the wind,
as they sang their little song untwined.
The sound of the wind whistling
as it carried away the night with it
maybe after all the sun's prayer was he listening.
To take away the bad, powerful moon he might,
replacing it with the sun's hopeful sight.
The sun rose happily today as well,
looking like never wanting to say farewell.
The universe smiled at me, once again
as I wondered what things I would today obtain.
Today everything seems to be extremely colourful.
Colourful like a brush painting over a canvas.
A brush made out of people's joy
Joy like of a child with his new toy.
And the canvas made out of the sorrow,
the sorrow of many hitting life's very low.
Covering and hiding the sorrow and pain,
putting on a fake mask, so peace would reign.
But my canvas was certainly different.
My canvas relied on other's happiness,
As I viewed life with not much seriousness.
I come out of my home,
and in the street I see people, only some.
Carrying their heavy handbags
with under their eyes, huge eyebags.
They don't seem happy, They don't seem to acknowledge the sun's positiveness.
Were they too selfish, or too conscious about life's timings?
Know? I know not much.
As I'm nothing but a kid,
holding unto hope as a torch.
Maybe they're not using their canvas right,
maybe they don't know anything like 'light'.
Light as in hope, as in happiness.
But instead knew much about darkness.
Darkness as in sadness, and mischievousness.
And because of these, their brush with hope and happiness
was tainted by the black selfish colour.
A colour they painted on top of their canvas.
Displaying a life of sacrifice and tiredness,
becoming only part of one of the huge masses.
All adults must be the same right?
all of them must only have money in their sight.
But is it not a sin to use joy to describe pain?
for I'm sure Jesus said peace among us should reign.
But with my canvas, I'll try my best to show them,
that life, with the right colours, is more than a gemme.
----Σｎｄ░♢ｆ░Ｔｈｅ░Ｆｉｒｓｔ░Ｐａｒｔ （圧がぁ衛ぷ)----
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The Old Man From The Window
Poetry-A poem that reflects on a real-life experience- Every day after school, a bright, joyful young girl walks by this house, where she seems to see an individual sitting there every day. At first, she doesn't think much about the why of the man sitting...
