I badly wanted to write something that's uplifting.
Something about sunshine, sunflowers and bees.
Something about vast oceans and starfish and coral reefs.
Something about sunrise and sunset and forever.
But I couldn't.
Whenever I hold my pen and scribble on the paper,
I write about darkness, silhouettes, and loneliness.
I write about blood and lies and brokenness.
I write about drowning, and death, and tragedy.
The same with looking at your photograph.
All the particles of hatred in me coerce,
Bombarding, colliding in a pressurized tank.
Crumpling it so much my fingers dig into my palm
And turning my knuckles as white as snow.
But then, I'd cry over it,
Hastily picking it up from the trash can,
Sobbing, murmuring how much I still love you.
You know you make things so complicated.
Everything that was normal and tranquil turned into a hot mess.
You make me love and hate you at the same time.
You make me love and hate myself at the same time.
I always wanted to be with you,
But instead I keep running away from you.
I love the blissful feeling whenever you're around,
And also hate the urge to cry whenever I look at you a little longer than five seconds.
I live and die when I'm with you,
I am a paradox.
I am me.
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YOU ARE READING
Dark and Beautiful
PuisiSometimes my thoughts and hand bleed so much poetry I can barely stop them from leaking onto the paper. But sometimes, too, my heart bleeds too much blood that I couldn't write poetry anymore.
