1914, London you gave birth to a tease,
Fifth of seven children,
A victim of her own unease,
Formed herself against everything in her bewildering.
1932, what a disgrace to her family,
Shocked them with her flattering hair,
Shocked them with her handshakes so clamilly,
Only to wake up as an exhibition, isn’t that unfair?
1934, love knocked on her heart core made of wood,
It welcomed itself into her dejected soul,
Infront of her a man of evil stood,
He took her hand and threw her in a black hole.
1939, Bloodshed was constructed in his rough hands,
She only wanted to take a dip in the waters of his ocean-blue eyes,
Couldn’t bare to look at the obliteration of her lands,
So she pulled the trigger in behalf of her demise.
Leave a comment | tags: depression, love, poem, poetry | posted in Poetry
If these trees could talk,
They would speak of you and I,
They would spill words for your immortale grace
And waste the same for this atrocious soul of mine.
Tonight silence broke my cruel heart,
The air became skin-tight and the sky fell apart,
Today is the day I realized what I’ve lost,
Every little piece that I have tossed,
Trudging slowly infront of my eyes,
With nothing more than violent goodbyes.
If this sky could talk,
It wouldn’t open it’s winsome mouth,
For silence is what collides the deaf
And their pity hearts full of ravishing passion
“Wouldn’t it be great to strangle all the foolish words,
Replace them with a stare which says it all
And what a great world that would be
Such a shame I belong in a foolish state of humanity.”
An answer was nowhere near
For I was sharing dreams with my own blended mind
And reality struck to my heart’s race
So the clash shall never again exist
Only a ruthless battle of my mental state
With a pinch of misery that lies ahead till the end of my time.
If my soul could speak,
It would ring a million words of love and disgust,
My silent laugh would echo through eternity
As my stare screams a mellifluous sound of epiphany.
Leave a comment | tags: depression, feelings, lonely, love, poem, poetry | posted in Depression, love, Poetry
A million candles lay on a sand made of gold
They sing a song of limerence, sad and bold
Carefully sipping from a glass made of steel
Oh, how beautiful it is to feel.
I can scent the petrichor wrestling with the air
As my mind blows away blindly falling in love with a morning prayer
But your shadow still makes my heart puerile
Oh, how inert it is to feel.
I shall make a blanket of the heavenly blue sky
And maybe then it will turn violet for you and I
But till then it’s pitch black, almost unreal
Oh, how violent it is to feel.
2 Comments | tags: depression, feelings, love, poetry | posted in Uncategorized