I

I am a story,
Encrypted upon flaxen pages
With ink hazel and blue
Like the midnight sky.
I do not have the stars
nor the moon,
That on delight of dreams
adores the yonder blue.


I am a painting,
The uneven splash of 
Monochrome colours.
One on another,
That together form
The imperfections 
On the vivid canvas,
Just like the little flaws in me.


I am a poetry,
With rhyme scenes forgotten
Just flowing with the wind.
The words combed together
Sharp like claws
To strike a chord hard,
On the strings
Of innumerable sins.


I am the music,
The sound of sticks on drums
And the grace of blaring noise
With cadence as its origin.
The sound of metal upon metal,
The laugh of ringing resonance.
The tune of a known song
just revived once again.


I am a mosaic,
Of abandoned masterpiece
Incomplete yet admirable.
The uneven pieces,
Molded together
to form a raven
of strength, strong 
like a warrior.


I am art,
Breathing for my own sake.
From strokes of brush,
To the fold of pages
From the chords of violin,
To poetic rages.
I am beauty of the beholder
Seen in vivid forms.


Forget what I told you,
For I cannot be remembered.
Like the director in shadows
Let me just be all and none at once.
The writer of my own story
And the protagonist too
So omit me from your memory ,
For I am you yet no one at once.

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16 thoughts on “I

  1. This is so beautiful a piece, I can’t describe it. This poem right here just made me wonder if the writer is a real grown up. I wouldn’t expect this from a teenager but here you are. May God be with you.

    Liked by 1 person

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