Latest Posts by thewritingark - Page 4

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

The Frame

In the frame, lies the memories, The memories of my life, Still unsure, whether the frame, Would be hidden in the dust of shame, Or decorated in the honor of the same. It would definitely remind me of my life, Left behind, the one that gave me a new life. Still unsure, whether the frame broken, Would be repaired or thrown, It'll remind me of their last words, Their nature or true colors shown, Their happiness or fake smiles, I'll remember the old days, While standing in the old aisles. I'll still long on the memories, The frame will behold. With my eyes through which tears, Of relief or regret would flow.

~ark

The Footsteps

The footsteps across the path she crossed, were the inspiration of the nightmares in which she was lost. Those footsteps made the path uneven; they were embedded in it after all.

Every time, she wanted to take a different road, full of adventures abode, she tripped on the footprints, that trapped her there, the moment she felt aware. The other one would be bad or even worse, she thought while she was handcuffed by the curse of her memories.

The footsteps she was scarred by, Belonged to the person who once made her fly, But she never knew, she took her first flight in a trapped sky.

She revisited the days she was a sunflower, who followed her star, her sun with all her power. She was now a prisoner, unknown of the jailer, after all the road became her world now.

The girl who was trapped by a jailer in a jail, Now thought her home was that person who protected from the unknown, Little did she knew; she was being hidden behind a cruel veil.

She asked herself one day, how did the footsteps leave such a deep impact on her fate?

She then remembered, the person crossed the path when it was young, when the cement was wet. The footsteps were embedded when the cement was naïve, it was isolated when they met.

The footsteps sculpted her entire life now, which made her imprison herself in the prison constructed by her hands, she was just a puppet now, strangled by the death strands.

~ark

The Ashes of Herself

The relics of her feelings, The ashes of her burnt soul, Were locked in an old chest, Buried deep in her heart enclosed. The burden of those burials gradually, Outweighed her. She wanted to get rid of it, As the weight had been consuming her.

That day, The chest opened itself, And dissolved the ashes in the rivers of tears, After years, she felt relieved and alive. She could finally breathe with a pleasant sigh.

There kept a pen on the table, Staring back at her. It was time to write her life again. The droplets of tears fell like rain, Wetting the paper on which, She had to sculpt her life ahead.

She instead wrote everything about her past self, Burnt it, and dissolved the ashes of herself, In a peaceful river. She then wrote again, Looking at herself in the unbreakable mirror, Unknown to what would happen ahead, But known to what would never happen again.

~ark