Broken Portraits
My eyes have fallen sore and from having rivers flow from them,
My vision is blurred from the spinning tenebrous,
Maybe it’s only when I’m hazy that I see clearly,
Because every time I hold on to something which seems to be real,
It shatters and shows its true colors,
And my sanity breaks.
So I gathered those shattered pieces in no particular order,
And got them framed into a poem,
And I buried those frames under pillows which could tolerate,
Much more than my headaches.
I crafted more such frames and had them buried,
I crumbled under the pieces of my heart and named those pages art,
To be left untouched, unheard and never seen,
I chose suffocation under the name of selflessness.
But it was my ability to feel that made the injuries deep,
And now my numbness seals every open door.
So I let those frames of broken words,
Rust under the cotton of the now dry pillows.
I encaged my voice.
I painted myself a mirage of self-control,
I buried my rage in the pit of my hollow chest,
I abandoned my soul because it was easier
to feel nothing than to feel it all together.
But it destroyed me,
The paranoia of being a void drove me crazy,
I refused my emotions and by doing so I refused my core self,
It took me much time to realize,
It’s our capacity to feel that makes us strong;
To cry,
To love,
To empathize,
To hurt,
To heal.
We carry a journey of unwritten voices inside our bones,
Memories untold and pieces unglued,
We engrave bleeding history underneath our skin
And bear it all and breathe.
Our broken hearts make us brave,
Our battles make us stronger,
The blood we shed does not make us weak,
For our scars make us immortal heroes.
So I now welcome my emotions with open hands,
Whether they speak peace or rapt absurdity,
I shall frame my shattered pieces and embrace their faults,
And hang the paintings on my barren walls.
