Broken strings & Pretty things

The world, seen through a young girl's eyes.

Archive for the tag “Poetry”

For Dad.

I’m trapped behind the barriers
screaming out your name
but you’re too far down the platform
just please don’t get on that train.

Hazy mornings are the most free
before the day rears his ugly face
before reality hurtles in
I cherish this bland taste.

But then my mind falls to sliding doors
to final words whispered through cracks
to last strokes of blue skin
to twenty past eight.

Some goodbyes can a outstretch a lifetime
like how I could have stayed all night
kissing your cheek, holding your hand
how leaving would have always been too soon.

I wish that you never got on that train
now all I have left of you are tracks.

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‘So happy I could die’.

Hurtling through the velvet skyline
this moment stretches, making us infinite.
Lungs too filled with air to cope
to even blink
to even mutter.
Here, I could lay my body.

Green crystal waters and lofty pines;
purple mountains eclipse Continental sun.
We soak our skin until everything floods out.
Letting the water pull us in
just enough.
Here, you and I could lay our bodies.

Glittered words and glowing lights
eyes wide in a fixed bloom
they speak words no one can hear,
dancing alone in a sea of pulsating figures.
Here, we could lay our bodies.

And if it weren’t for outstretched hands
and garlands of long-cherished names;
If I could just sink
without leaving an unexplained grave
I would lay my body here,
Drenched in this golden exuberance.

(image via tumblr)

Fire.

Deep in midnight, we set these walls ablaze
We hurled daggers from our mouths
Breathed fire from our lungs
We mercilessly broke each other down until nothing was left
Our silent screams echoed for no one to hear
And we fell deeply, darkly into a restless slumber

But as the light of morning cradled your every edge
We awoke fragilely in a silver embrace
Chains were broken; freedmen were made
Wounds were cleaned; burns were healed
Curves dominated faces
We were free and everything had returned.

(image via tumblr)

Who are you really?

who are you
really?

you are not a name
or a height, or a weight
or a gender
you are not an age
and you are not where you are from

you are your favourite books
and the songs stuck in your head
you are your thoughts
and what you eat for breakfast
on Saturday mornings

you are a thousand things
but everyone chooses
to see the million things
you are not

you are not
where you are from
you are
where you are going
and i’d like
to go there
too

-M.K

I wouldn’t.

I would wait for the day that the sun shines its iridescence
into the shadows of your face
And beckons you in with all its glory

I would wait for the day where the raindrops
are the rivers that stain your face
And that pain is a long forgotten handshake
of a former acquaintance

I would wait for the day when the last goodbyes
are the ones that are scheduled
And that the first hellos
come with their own warranties

And I would dream that you do not once more
rest your head in a blanket of sorrows
or stand in a crowd with no name
or miss another turning
or feel another scorch of heart break.

But I simply could not. Nor would I.
For the very blood in my veins knows

That pain is empathy and strength and compassion
and travesty is a breaker of the body but a healer of the soul
it will shake you, and mould you to the point that
even your insides are made of more
than Demeter’s simple building blocks

Anguish unites but brokenness divides
Because no ounce of happiness will ever
undermine the prevail or content
of the injured whose wounds will not be licked.

London.

You’re just another speck in the velvet skyline;
another blurred streak on a tube train.
And it’s refreshing,
because you can no longer pretend your life
is the centre of humanity;
you’re just another body
passing through a river flooded with history.
You’re forgettable, insignificant
and inexplicably ordinary.
And that’s wonderful.
It’s humbling, yet equally empowering:
Only you yourself
can shape and shine your own destiny.

An egocentric insomniac,
she never sleeps,
only shines.
She shouts her name,
stains your windows
slams your doors
with her presence.
She’s helplessly lonely,
yet constantly the centre of the crowd.
Rain or shine,
dusk or day
she’s there, gleaming as brightly
as the days, weeks, centuries before.

She’s the centre of the world,
and a red dot flicked away in the corner of an atlas.
She’s aged and grey
and yet forever young.
She’s cold and callous,
she’s bitter and crude.
But she’s warm. She’s inviting
and she’s everything you’d hope she would be.

She’s home.

A hopeful mess.

We lay there in the fragments of our own undoing; in the depths of empathy; in unshakable forgiveness; in unfailing helplessness. The only gap between a tear-stained whisper. Everything had been torn down, ripped apart and burnt in some sporadic cataclysmic flame.

And we found ourselves in the midst of it.

And we awoke from this fiery haze with nothing but an unyielding clutch. A drowning in blankets and hands trying to save and bring life back to deflating lungs. Nothing to be said but a mountain of words both requited and known by both parties, yet still yearned to be spoken. A simple flick of wet irises were enough.

Enough to say that no one is leaving.
I’m staying right here.

Berlin.

Sometimes I wonder whether the moon misses the sun.

I wonder whether there truly is silence in space
Maybe instead the stars themselves
Are psychedelic whispers transcending
Across the velvet skyline.

Or maybe the moon does not actually miss the sun.

Because maybe there is happiness in knowing
That they are moving in a parallel waltz
That maybe just sharing the same atmosphere
Is enough.

Because one day each celestial glide
With each side’s unshakable zeal
Will one day meet

In the warmth and brightness
Of a silver eclipse.

You say one thing, yet do the other.

You.

Your voice penetrates my ears like nails on a chalk board, cutting my eardrums as the noise resonates through my body.
Your face wretches my eyeballs, streaking my cornea with blurs of blood, tears and lost hope.
Your silhouette haunts my dreams, like a distant nightmare, your presence never fails to stalk my footsteps.
Your words linger, your laugh soul-destroying.

Each and every part of you, from your brittle fingers to the half crooked sneer, breaks me apart.
Six months gone and some dark, soulless, part of yourself once again begins to emerge.

Just let it go darling, just let it go.

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