"My mother told me to write about our backyard. The trees, the orange of the flowers, the birds, the footprints. But i keep writing about the misery that fall within the rain, the lorn past, those broken hours, those sinful nights, the hates that hide in my deepest maze. About you.
The thing that confused me is that the melancholy is always the pioneer in my verses. The fact that I always dwell in the grave of sadness constantly, makes you unable to understand my true color.
Sometimes i am blue, sometimes i am grey, and sometimes i am orange. Sometimes i am rose and sometimes i am jasmine. The fact that I mourn for quite a long time, makes you powerless to deal with the way I live.
You see, i am such a complicated masterpiece that even a beauty, dashing, and intellectually interesting human being like you is not willing to stay, to cherish, to adore those beautiful fragments of my soul.
I do not blame you for the ego that live in your mind, but it will be so heartbreaking when one day, at some point in your life, you realize how glowing I am under the rain, how sweet my soul is in bitterness, how radiant I am in the darkness.
One day, at a point in your life, you will realize how graceful I am when walking between the withered flowers that we used to take care.
Dear, just do not let a tragedy makes you aware."
YOU ARE READING
The Art of Us
Random❝ This is how i make the bitter look exhilarating. ❞ ❨#2 in Poetic Justice, March 2019❩ (#3 in The Cold, May 2020) (#1 in The Cold, June 2020)
