existence is a void
merely filled with societal constructs,
mine's rather devoid
of all the nonchalant conversations.
i hold thoughts as pebbles in my mind,
like little hansel finding his way
to the raggedy witch's house.
i scream in the water, ripples suppressing my muffled voice
loathing my self isn't a habit, it's a trait.
i stutter, i fall and metallic taste of my blood
fills in my shallow lungs
there's daffodils growing in my arteries
and a thorn pricking them away.
the sting cuts me into half -
where's innocence? where are the golden years?
are they exuberant or are they hushed by fears.
"ars longa, vita brevita",
soft trails of thorns hang from my soul
making humanity flee for their lives,
i wake up, sunshine by the window sill
impermeable to my darkness.
i should have cut my wings
before they were born
for every person i touch,
turns me into an existentialist
flesh and bones make me up
where's the emotion? where's the youth?
all my thoughts are habseligkeiten,
fit me into a munch painting
and i shall live forever.
- Anurima Mukherjee
P.S. wrote something after a long time. i hope you guys liked it. this poem is based off my anger issues which are personified as "thorns" and my imagination as "daffodils". it's good to be able to write again. i love y'all so much. take care and stay safe.
lots of love,
anurima.
YOU ARE READING
Calcutta Calling
Poetry[FEATURED ON WATTPAD POETRY'S "HEART STAINS" LIST] In this book, you will find two things- • Poetry. • Broken Love. "Home is where the heart is" that's what we say when it comes to true peace and harmony. "The pain it flows, But do I notice? Do I e...
