Drenched in the aroma of jasmine,
she laughs—
her voice a reverberating song that conceals
the chaos of her mind's tides like the mist
on early mornings.
Pale pink lotuses bloom on her face as the
violet-stained stars shimmer in the irises of her
eyes.
Her skin is of the softest petals,
adorned with thin scars that piece together
like the pencil lining of a flower's veins.
She has an indigo stained-glass mind
that filters the harsh white lights of the
world and shells them inside synthetic
sapphires.
She tries to show that nothing ever bothers her,
but the cruelties she's faced still chip away at her self-worth just how the seasons are inevitable to change.
When she laughs, she hopes her summer smile
looks like a genuine one amidst
the incredible doubt chewing at the lovely
gardens of her heart.
She wants the honeycomb nectar of her
confidence to be entirely unfeigned, and
that the jasmine's sweet fragrance
saturating across her porcelain skin
won't have to be a mask anymore.
But when
will that
time come
for me?
she wonders as she continues to laugh
surrounded by the people
who love her the most,
despite the sweet gardens
of her heart being annihilated
by the weeds that have broken out of her hollowed bones,
when will
the facade
of happiness
be real?
Decorated by
the perfumes of tulips,
she speaks—
her words are dressed in robes of gardenia,
its fabrics easily torn apart by the contrasting
thoughts sprouting from the glass terrace of her head.
Her beliefs are the grains of sands that are repeatedly pounded by the tumultuous ocean waves, her hopes fragmenting with each daunting crash.
But she loves to whisper poetry
to break the sensitive silence floating about her, wishing that the people around her
heed to the pretty imagery and alluring metaphors rather than focus on the dismal undertones her words really carry.
Poisonous thorns shovel deeper into her heart
where wisteria and cherry blossoms used to grow, and with every breath she takes,
it feels like quartz crystals
are expanding from within her lungs and
are shredding them apart.
She wishes that her sunlight-dipped words
won't have to be lies anymore—
that when she speaks of mirthful
prose her messages are true.
But when
will that
time come
for me?
she sings only to herself,
her lyrics warming the air
around the people she loves
despite the coldness crawling along her heart,
when will
the facade
of happiness
be real?
YOU ARE READING
The Ebb & Flow of Virtue
Poetry~ There is good and bad constantly warring with each other inside you, a small voice resounds in my conscience just as my vision dips underneath the salty water, it is similar to how the land fights with the sea, the sky with gravity, the light...
