I̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶a̶l̶l̶ ̶ ❝ butterflies and roses ❞

5.Beautiful, boring brown eyes

❝
Her eyes,
That sang the ballads of the lies,
That skilled poets and romantic writers cried
That she had the most boring brown eyes.

Her eyes weren't blue,
The penetrating icy hue,
The orbs deeper than the sea,
The ocean eyes like a cloudless spring,
The salt in the wounds those eyes didn't bring.

Her eyes weren't green,
The emerald shining in the moonlight for her to preen,
The fresh breeze of Amazon that she couldn't breathe,
The lucky clover that didn't embellish her wreath.

Her eyes weren't grey,
The scarred moon calling for the moonchild to prey,
The ashes of the anger that burned children and cities,
The silver dagger shining under the cloudy thunderstorm's remedies.

Her eyes weren't in the books and history,
Her eyes weren't an unsolvable mystery,
They didn't know how to capture its beauty between the gaps,
of words and apostrophes, in a language that's mundane in front of her brown trap.

The tea in the cup that would turn sour by her tears,
The storms that brewed in the orbs when she was in fear,
The scent of varnish that makes the cedar glimmer,
The cinnamon rolls that made children's laugh, shimmer.

Don't tell me her eyes were copper or gold,
Her eyes are worth more than what can be sold,
Don't tell me her eyes were the earth below her feet,
Or the autumn leaves crunched underneath.

Her eyes were the sunrises on a winter morning
That would eclipse the cup of coffee, luring,
The vagabonds and lovers like a whiskey,
And burn their love in her symphonies so silky.

When the moon would steal the sun's radiance,
The night would turn dark in her eyes, with brilliance.
The colour of the ink in her tears would spill,
The secrets that'll send the shivers and chill.

Even then, when the ripples in her eyes,
Would be the siren for sailors to guide,
The smile would be the sun-kissed soil on a rainy day,
And the glory I'll mould with the clay.

We can write about the sins healed in the embrace of the golden fleece,
We can paint a myriad of colours, we can sing a myriad of lies,
But you can't paint a masterpiece
If it's devoid of those beautiful, boring brown eyes.
❞

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I had written a paragraph on the brown(poop) eyes and I made a poem outta it(for the lack of ideas). Poop eyes gang, I hope you like your eyes better after reading this.

If you lukewarm liked my pathetic poem then I recommend you to press that star thingy at the corner of your screen to avail a permanent entry in the list of people I don't hate.