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write in the rain
ㅤㅤ
I can write in the rain, in the freezing cold, I can breathe life into my words as I bleed to death — but never hand me a pen as your gentle fingers graze my cheeks; I will cut my own two hands before ever tainting your holy soul, in the name of my cursed poetry.
If I were to be given a wish from the universe, I would pray for the ability to write with flowers in my mind, with love and adoration pouring out like sand from every line. I want to write for what heals me, for the hands that embraced my scars when the strom had all, but made an ugly home out of my insides. I want to pen down a plethora of books, just not for that one flame, for which my hands, had never stopped bleeding for.
For what sins of what life, am I paying for?
when the greatest curse to a poet,
is being unable to write the way,
their hands aches desperately for.
Perhaps the one love I have ever known had been too cruel, mayhaps I grew up in a place where it reeked of dust and cemeteries; if so, I would irrevocably understand why the mere scenario of something tender leaves me utterly breathless, why even the idea of creating gentle pieces dedicated to someone leaves me nauseous and the bones in my fingers, cease to function.
But, who am I lying to? Even in the isolation of my own room, I can't voice it out. I will gladly pen down a thousand more words but I would never be able to admit it outright, that the cause had always been you. The muse of all my writings, the object of all my desires, it has always been you. If my papers and ink had an odour, it would properly smell of you and your perfume. You are the only one these hands would ever dance so beautifully for, anyway.
A millinnia of writing, each line would scream of your name. You're no longer by my side, but my hands would keep you alive, it will paint a picture so vivid that I would have long forgotten, that you once left. For me, you're poetry, how could I bear ever subjecting it to anyone else?
my star,
no happiness and love,
would ever be worth your loss.
I can write in the rain, in the freezing cold, I can breathe life into my words as I bleed to death — but never hand me a pen as your gentle fingers graze my cheeks; I will cut my own two hands before ever tainting your holy soul, in the name of my cursed poetry.
If I were to be given a wish from the universe, I would pray for the ability to write with flowers in my mind, with love and adoration pouring out like sand from every line. I want to write for what heals me, for the hands that embraced my scars when the strom had all, but made an ugly home out of my insides. I want to pen down a plethora of books, just not for that one flame, for which my hands, had never stopped bleeding for.
For what sins of what life, am I paying for?
when the greatest curse to a poet,
is being unable to write the way,
their hands aches desperately for.
Perhaps the one love I have ever known had been too cruel, mayhaps I grew up in a place where it reeked of dust and cemeteries; if so, I would irrevocably understand why the mere scenario of something tender leaves me utterly breathless, why even the idea of creating gentle pieces dedicated to someone leaves me nauseous and the bones in my fingers, cease to function.
But, who am I lying to? Even in the isolation of my own room, I can't voice it out. I will gladly pen down a thousand more words but I would never be able to admit it outright, that the cause had always been you. The muse of all my writings, the object of all my desires, it has always been you. If my papers and ink had an odour, it would properly smell of you and your perfume. You are the only one these hands would ever dance so beautifully for, anyway.
A millinnia of writing, each line would scream of your name. You're no longer by my side, but my hands would keep you alive, it will paint a picture so vivid that I would have long forgotten, that you once left. For me, you're poetry, how could I bear ever subjecting it to anyone else?
my star,
no happiness and love,
would ever be worth your loss.
