One could make pearls
out of melancholies
but I never thought of you
as my irritant.
Like any creature,
it was the knowledge
that defence
is the best offense
and I used to coat
my tragedies fine
instead of having
venomous fangs.
Though I'd like to think
my pearls have no more
value these days;
Everyone could scribble now
on post-it notes
and make them into fine jewelries.
My Literature teacher would
have called the phenomenon
as pearl farming---
cultured and menacingly
beautiful,
which you will prefer
over my sad pearls
for their luster
and lack of grudge.
(And perhaps the fear of
seeing your embossed name on
my notes.)
So I laughed a sad laugh
because I still not think
of you as my irritant
for all things happen
in the water,
like how divers would
sometimes find
dead clams and oysters
still having pearls
inside their shells.
Sad, and ghostly,
but could be beautiful
and you're supposed to
have found mine now,
if you would just read
my verses.
YOU ARE READING
Live
PoetryOur hearts are brave as fire, minds gentle as earth, dreams are fluid as water, and our souls are as free as the wind. (Poetry and Prose) #2 of the end-live-begin trilogy.
