It comes to me at night
When the whole world turns quiet
I have with me a pen,
A blank paper
My thoughts,
My heart
and
Some cheap wafer
I start to cry;
I hear my mind
I weep
Mostly I can’t seem to find
A way to make things better
And
Make my pains lesser
Then my tears begin to fill
That plain white sheet
And I watch
As it weaves me a colourful cloth
With its complex design...
Its beauty
Baffles me
I’m left in shock
As the colours rush out
Like a flooded river
From my aorta...
Its source...
I shiver
Yet I don’t stop to think
When it gets to me from that side
My heart won’t let me do that thing
It won’t allow me take that ride
It’s because of the way I feel
And I believe,
From the beauty of poetry,
I will someday heal.
please, could you shed some light on the last two stanzas?
ReplyDeletepls, cd u shed som light on de last 2 stanzas?
ReplyDeleteYou mean the last two lines? People write for different reasons. I write for my sanity. Writing has helped me deal with personal things. When I write what i feel, i'm relieved, i feel lighter. Gradually I have learnt to let go of some hurt through poetry, so I know, someday, i will be completely free from all forms of mental torture.
Deletecompletely free? that could mean exiting the world, u know. i think that in this world the hurt only ends in death or am i mistaken?
ReplyDeleteI'm referring to something in particular here. But then I understand what you mean. No one can be completely free.
ReplyDelete