Poetry and Pain

beads of trust that are woven, worth the pearls

are wore in pride

like necklaces of royalty passed down into generations

but there's always that one inheritance

who refuses to carry them

the rebel of the wild, child of the night

one who believes in thrashing the built empire

the lover of chaos, the empress of revolts

one who governs autonomy to create her domains

the pursuer of creation, redefining satisfactions

one who reinvents the orthodox into grandeur of motives

the optimism of spectators, the criticism of his haters

there's always that one chosen heart who displays divine power

and makes you believe in miracles

who innovates deviance and sets a path to explore

whose tragedies get engraved in historical scripts

are sung by ancestries and praised in folklores

when i was younger my love was stored in moon and stars

because it was pure, tender, fascinating, waiting to be explored

it was stored in hands of my mother caressing my head on her lap

it was anticipation of summer vacations residing in rosy evenings

it was building a sand castle at beach shores

it was that 5 minutes of extra sleep on cold winter mornings

it was in handmade sweater my grandmother had woven

my love was stored in my friends' lunchboxes filled with hungry smiles

but as the mysteries of time unravelled and destiny asked me to act my age

previous definitions of love dissolved

love now felt like standing naked in front of a crowd

because it became demanding, vulnerable, wanting to be seen and put on a show

it felt like walking on broken glass pieces with bloody footprints being left behind

like an unplanned weekend when no one calls you

like the terror you feel after a nightmare

like the fear of loosing your family when you were young

like a past mistake that haunts you forever

it's now stored in a facade of instagram pictures

in insecurities you never came over

in efforts that became wasted potential

the world said the latter potrayal is realistic

still i hold tight the jar of love that contained innocence and is filled with nostalgia

and in hope someday a token would pop out of it

would spark something that wouldn't lie in what you're familiar with

it would be stored in suprises of pleasent uncertainties

and a very few times if you ever get lucky

maybe a reflection of your childhood love

to remind you, that definition wasn't wrong all along

I've let flies browse over my open wounds

I don't see the need to aid them

they're probably going to be ripped again

before I can heal anyway

and even if they heal, I'm going to be scarred forever

but this intense satisfaction of always dwelling in pain

letting the bruises burn

I've been here too often to finally state it my homeland

the voices here welcome warm

not like your favourite cozy corner

but like a house set on fire

and I'm watching my favourite show lying cold on the floor

I have finally made peace with the misery

My agony doesn't burns red now

it's stained of hurt and glimmers of strength

I have let the flies browse over my open wounds

for now I have acquainted the grief

now all I can daydream is of finding a love that would fit into my voids. these movies, books have romanticize the concept of an ideal lover so much that at a certain point, the absence of bookish romance in my life makes me physically sick. reading and watching these explicit description of physical forms of affection make my body ache to be held, to be touched, to be treasured.

i wish i didn't let these things control me so much but what even in this world am i trying to achieve if not wanting to be loved and to love them back?

where's my other half? why do i need them? will i ever find them? what if they're not the right one?

i have denied so much of love because i believed it doesn't come easy

I've duped my brain into taking a kind smile for mockery

an unasked help for a planned barter of support

my father's care for the impeding anger i would confront someday

only because I've been shown by the world this is what actually happens

the vices take over and heroism gets buried

that's why it's better to have your gaurds up

but i fawn over the wasted love more than celebration of escaped depravity

have i ever met someone so beloved that didn't give me a reason to despise them, once at least?

and this spirals me once again into thinking

can love and hate ever truly be inherited independently?

and if my denial to love meant saving myself from wickedness

would i dare to risk it all and have a lifetime of romance for once?

or would i rather cripple to the comfort zone