They say that every artist has a cupboard full of not so good paintings beside the shelf decorated with their masterpieces but it looks like my shelf is empty and the cupboard is overflowing.
It's all about bleak conversations now, in the language of the ordinary. The rose in me has wilted and took shelter in the folds of a book whose pages are smeared with someone else's ink. I no longer feel like the paper plane that soared in the skies of someone's childhood but like the crumpled papers beneath an artist's desk.
It's been so long since I decorated my pain in beautiful metaphors,
And sang alliterations while choking on my tears.
It's been so long since I buried my melancholy under layers of satires,
And danced to the tunes of my oxymorons.
It's been so long since I found poetry in my conversations,
And heard stories echoing of the silence.
It's been so long since I bled my sorrows on parchment,
And picked pearls of literature from the streets of the mundanes.
- Ish, pick up the pen baby, how else will you breathe?
YOU ARE READING
Reverie
Poetry~ if not between the lines, where else can I find my peace? ~ Trigger warnings applied || Poetry Collection ||
