u/Echo_of_deadpoet

Color color everywhere

Blue, black, brown, pink, green

I wish I could have seen the unseen

For that I had to lose my sanity.

Maybe it would not be too bad

To be called as a mad

If once, just once I could breathe

What life could be if my mind was not holding me?

Perhaps I could listen to my heart

Closely, too closely the heartbeat drumming in my chest,

And as I hear more, I hear blood running like a stream.

Art, humans are art, melody,

Poems and museums,

Full of colors, one sane eyes could not see

You have to be lunatic

A mad one, one drowned in their heart

Writer, poets, artist, musicians ah, its a same as they are called

No sane mind creates art,

Insanity run in lines till the pen breaks,

Ideals are born with the stink of alcohol,

Within the smoke the masterpiece is created,

In the haze a discovery is made,

Within the haunted the melody is resonated.

Creativity is born from chaos,

Within oneself, those lost in dark abyss

Those seeking to find peace,

A coward, hunted mind that couldn't resist

The insanity luring it.

Mad, those who feel everydamn things

Those chaos trying to seep in from skin,

Yet it bleeds in canvas or words,

Or somewhere in lab of mad scientist,

Echoing in the theatre till the fingers bleeds,

It's pain, it's sadness, it's happiness, it's hope,

It's every feeling , one not defined.

But no, no one can feel,

Not at once except those lunatics,

Cursed with burdens of feeling.

They see colors, colors among the grey

Kaleidoscope of life, pretty, confusing, contained,

Chaos, changing, vibrant, dull, sanity, madness

Color picked with each changing emotion,

A creation of color of one's reflection.

Madman, lunatic, artist,

Creator, rebels, scientist,

Dreamer, ah! The dreamer,

Lost in the grey instead of colors,

Repent for the dreams, The holy sin!

Dreamer, a criminal,

Against, the reality of the society's structure

A criminal hidden in a plain sight,

For why would anyone ever forgive the dreamer?

The lunatic with the feverous dreams,

A plague that would threaten a system,

A balanced, bleak truth of smoke and mirror

A disease that touch and feel the color,

Blind to grey of society where black and white only matters.

~SYP~

Like the concept of "post nut clarity".....I am coining new terminology "post PMSing and menstrual clarity." It sucks. Crying for absolutely no reason, being sad, and distracted and next day viola, aunt flow in the town.

And sadly menstrual phase is almost full of mood swings, hyperactivity, unnecessary energy at wrong place, and stupid decisions.

And comes post menstrual clarity. My energy is drained , apparently consequences of my action and reckless decision is instant, which kinda sucks, and now I am contemplating if I should just fake my death and leave the country because girls, I brought stupid things from daraz which I don't even need😭😭😭😭.

I am blaming period and hyperactivity that I saw and brought it. It's going to be delivered tomorrow and my parents will know....Mamma darling to maar hi dalegi mujhe...😭😭😭😭😭😭

I see myself in the mirror,

My own reflection sneering at me,

I put my palm against the glass,

She is there copying me.

And suddenly, her hand got hold on mine,

She pulled me inside the abyss,

With no closed wall, no floor or ceiling,

Nothing except black ink, nothing except me and her.

She looked at me with fire in her eyes,

The flames burning my skin

My reflection then began to morph,

Looking more like monster than human.

With claws and thrones,

With scarred skin and ragged bones,

With sharp teeth ready to tear me apart,

An ugly beast, with notable beating heart.

It began to chase as I ran,

I cried for help for no soul to listen,

No eyes to see

No one to leap to save me.

The black ink slowly began to crawl on me,

It's vine like trendils binding me to its root,

I tried to set free, my fingernail bleed, but alas, I couldn't cut it lose.

The tendrils entwin me, I feel it crepping on my skin,

It encircled my throat, putting me on chokehold,

my heartbeat raced, my mind begging for a breath.

But the ink began to drown me, my breath betrayed me,

And my mind, it kept screaming.

I tasted the darkness,

Felt the ache as it filled my lungs,

The weight of darkness pulling me to the depth

And I slowly descend to sink.

A calloused hand pulled me before I drowned,

As I gasped for the breath, the monster before me frowned,

The monster of my making, the ugly part of me,

My seven sins wrapped in a body,

A ugly part that kept scaring me,

One I could never accept, one I loathe that it exist.

The imperfect monster,

The friend of my loneliness

One always ready to protect

Even if the cost is my soul itself.

I raised my palm to it,

Shivering as I felt its cold skin against me,

The monster scarred yet beautiful,

One made out of cruelty in this world,

One that was born as I continued to grow up,

Not against me, but to protect me,

Loving me in its own twisted way,

And didn't expected for me to love back.

The monster with thick skin from those betrayal,

The cuts of disappointment and histrionic,

The sharp fangs that grew with my rage,

The black eyes, depth of my loneliness

The thorns of greed and envy

The talons sharpen with my every word lashes.

The monster I created,

The one who is never scared to dive too deep

But never knew a way back.

The monster waiting for love.

I accept her with my heart,

No longer scared of those scars

For she is a part of me,

She is me, and I am her

Half human and half monster.

~SYP~

They say 20s are for seeking

The dreams that one holds so dear

Where even wrong steps and huge mistakes never really matters,

The drive of 20s to hold the world in the palm,

The thrist to be quench with the sheer determination,

An age of transition from child to youth,

From light shoulder to heaviness of growth.

An age where childhood dreams of some come true,

The practical ones find their dreams with value,

The chosen one aceing everything they touch

But what about those dreamers who are always lost?

20s creates few miracles and more machines

Confines the freedom that one seeks,

Bind the life with more shackles and heavy expectations,

Youth leaves their 20s with broken determination.

A weird race to success,

The 20s held parameter,

Many fight, many surrender, and many they just wish to disappear.

They say 20s is for dreamers,

But for those who create, analyse, and are practical

But it is cruel for those dreamers,

Those poets, writers, painters, and gardeners

Those who seek life in bland of the world,

But alas, who have time to stay and feel

For after 20s is life so big,

Full of expectations and responsibilities,

A dreading deadline one need to achieve,

To prove that they survived, they lived

They created a place, and now are ready to be believed.

20s are for struggle,

To leave behind the childish dream,

To limit the hope that fits in palm,

Trying too hard to belong,

To follow the structure,

A family, house, children

A success parameter.

For what 20s really are for?

If not trying to fit in society

If not trying to ease aching loneliness

If not trying to contain one within a box

If not the thousands droplet of expectations

Try to drown you before you find shelter.

~SYP~

One day we will be memory,

And one day a long lost poem,

Perhaps our house shall stay.

Our dead laughter echoing through the wall,

A mere memory it shall remember,

The time we called it home,

Our story caged within those pillars,

Known and yet unknown.

The fights we had and tears we shed,

The laughter and the moments of joy,

The only proof of our existence,

Within the walls of our home.

Only if it could talk,

It would talk about us,

How we built it together,

The way we grew there with time,

Made some beautiful memories,

And the way we drifted to long sleep.

But still it stands,

Perhaps lonely, wanting us to fill it with warmth again,

Those love we shared as family,

The way we made hollowed concerte to home.

Perhaps the home stays,

Even if we don't.

~SYP