I was once an empty sheet,
not until you made some spaces
and painted it with red inks.
You filled those hollow places.
Fragile thin.
You made these feeble hands
scribble with looming affection,
and I've written worlds I used to
imagine when my world met yours.
Heart pounding.
The river dances, blossoming flowers
while my feelings were trapped in reverie.
You made thousands of seasons in my pages waiting to be a painting.
Painful writing.
I saw it coming, but I chose
to enjoy all of my secret fables
rather than crying knowing that
you are only an abstract subject.
Heart crampling.
YOU ARE READING
Blued Lines
PoetryTo those whose heart has been ripped apart, you're not alone in the boat. If you think that poets write wonderful lines and echoing endings, then you got it wrong because we also get broken and as you read each poem, the sadder and painful it become...
