Belonging

The Pot's Everything

The seed sown in a pot, Nourished with its care in ways untaught. The pot's everything was the plant. The reason for its existence was the plant. One day, The plant outgrew the pot. And was now held by the other. The pot, abandoned because of its care, Swore to never love anything in its life, Due to the hidden fear. But the other seed sowed in its heart, Germinated and opened it once again, Knowing, that it wouldn't sustain. But still grew just to keep the pot's soul alive, To keep it filled with warmth, For bringing the another to life.

~ark

Her Loss

In the room full of familiar faces, She lay her head low, Trying to erase the memories, Which adulterated her soul. Everything she ever wanted, Never became her own. Covered in the cold snow, She shivered to see a ray of hope. The monotony once sowed, Sprouted in a plant, It was the only thing she could call her home. Frozen in the unknown frost, She tried to be known, in spite of being lost.

Banality grew like an old moss Covered by the shade of her loss Her life became a coin of toss She was now settled in her mind’s chaos.

The Lost Path

In the desire to explore the alien land, I left the shore of my home. My dreams tangled, They surpassed my expectations' comb. My wish to write everything, I lost the pages of my own. Midway to success, I saw myself dying all alone. As I witnessed the ultimate truth, My heart died as I achieved my goal. I now yearn to return to myself, But the path towards it remains unknown.

~ark

People are finding the love of their life online, and I can't even find the right answer to my assignment questions.

Sometimes I don't care about what people think, Because I've already thought about it on their behalf.

~ark

How difficult it was to accept that you were never the one. Lying in the shadows of others, no source of light until they leave. It was never envy or jealousy, just question marks.

Just wondering where you were lacking. No matter the efforts, no matter how much of your time invested, you were just never good enough. The weighing scale always rose upwards at your side, the lines of progress descending. 

Life is a competition, I believe it too, As always, I prepared to achieve something, But somehow found myself standing in the “I wish, I could” queue.

Participation matters the most, they say, but those symbols of achievement just never reflected you. 

~ark

The Real World

In the world of lies, She lied too. In order to survive, She smiled too. All the relations formed, On the foundation of the feelings suppressed, Blinded by the fake world, She lost her conscious and herself. The artificial skin worn once, Was now a part of what she called her own. Afraid to be alone, Being a part of darkness, She couldn’t bear the light which made her true self being shown. The world she was born in, Ripped her bare, calling it an act of kindness. Their plan about to begin, They smiled at her while the mask hid their evil grin. She laid bleeding alone, Blending in the darkness of her hidden sins.

~ark

I Will Die Happy

In the forest of green, I ought to see the brown. Everyone restless to see the moon, I wanted a hindrance promised by the clouds. A fury hidden beneath me, I was the bearer of the burning crown. Turning the leaves in the ashes of nature, I found solace in the cracks of drought. My eyes were a curse, mind as well, Was I trapped in a spellbound? With the desire of another wound, I peeked inside my hatred profound. Relics of my happiness unalive, Made me suffer the pain they gave me throughout. Unaware of the path I'll choose, 'I will die happy' I vowed.

~ark

There were two reasons I was scared to let people in; the damage they could do, and the damage they could find.

Chris Mc Geown

Identity

Who am I, if not a poet? What am I, if not a writer? What is my existence, And what is my purpose?

How do I relieve myself of these emotions, If not by bleeding myself on paper? How do I express myself to the world, If not by baring myself for everyone to see? What is my comfort, if not being vulnerable with words? Where do I go, if not to pen and paper? To whom do I share my happiness, sadness, My sorrows, and guilt? Where do I let out my anger, Before it turns me cold and sharp? Where do I pour out the storm, Before it drowns me? Tell me, what do I do, If not write?

Who am I, if not a poet? What am I, if not a writer? What is my existence, And what is my purpose?

©Pen_Pain_Poetry