Sitting in a swamp
she jotted her thoughts down
Whatever she wrote
eventually sank down
What was she supposed to do?
Accept her faith,
and bath in mudded ink
and lie?
Or
Refuse to breath in sludge
and suffocate herself
and die?
Her
lined eyes,
mascarad lashes,
blushed cheeks,
sticked lips,
all was done to mask
her real pain matter of fact
real her to hide
the truth under the mud.
Sitting in the swamp
she asked herself:
Could she bear truth inside?
She scribbled the answer down
Before she could read
‘swamp’ed swallowed it down.
Beril
20-26/01/10
Poetry is one's break down between the writer's blocks -a failed attempt to get back to sanity
Melancholy inspires my mind
"The chemistry of mind and that of love is different. Mind is cautious. It takes its steps cowardly. "for god's sake, avoid yourself!" it suggests. However, is love like that? The only thing it says: "Leave yourself, let it go!" The mind won't collapse easily. Love instead frazzles itself, it gets devastated. However, treasures are to be found in wrecks. A devastated heart has it all!" (Translated by me from Ask, Elif Safak)
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