2013, By the roaring waves!, Paintings and Scribblings, Poems and poetry

Can You Draw Hatred?

Can you draw hatred?
‘Draw hatred?’
Yes, hatred!
‘No, how do we draw it?’
Like this!
I showed her what I had made.
‘What is this?’
This is hatred.
‘This is hatred?’,
She would repeat.
Yes, hatred.
‘And?’
And Anger.
And all those questions,
Those disturb me.
So I have poured here,
On this once-a-blank sheet,
All that was inside me.
All burning questions,
And hatred,
And anger,
Agony,
Miseries,
Mishaps,
Memories.
It is a canvas of my thoughts.
A harsh painting.
A disrupted photo.
A broken vase.
Numerous fragments,
You will fail to count them.
These lines,
Are not just lines.
These spots,
Are really blots.
Blots,
That made my life so ugly.
These sharp edges,
Are the knifes,
Those were used to kill me.
‘Kill you?’
Yes!
The swords of words,
Impertinent words,
Killing words,
Words that took my life,
‘You are alive!’
No, I am not!
Can you see me alive?
Living is not breathing!
LIVING IS NOT JUST BREATHING!
I am breathing,
I am not alive.
I AM DEAD!!!
These colorful dresses that I wear,
I see them black.
This home,
Is my coffin.
This world is my grave!
I am not alive!
My life is this broken vase,
Fragments scattered,
Here and there,
I see them everywhere.
These blots,
They itch!
These scratches,
They give pain.
You would now say,
That I have gone insane!
But I am not insane!
I am just a dead soul,
Compelled to live here,
Until my benefactor,
My death returns!
I want to die literally,
So that no one could see me,
No one could point out,
And say,
“Oh what a poor girl!”
No one could sympathize,
For the broken vase,
For things are meant to break,
And my heart is one of those.
‘Its time you sleep.
Get some rest, my friend.’
No, don’t stop me.
Please don’t.
For this one last time,
Let me speak.
Let me tell you where I have been,
What I have gone through,
Oh let me speak.
I have had the worst days,
Of my life.
Life, oh is this life?
I used to sit on the grasses,
Look at the beautiful flowers,
Enjoy the breezes that once flew,
Follow the butterflies.
I never plucked a flower,
I never caught a butterfly,
For I loved them living,
And spreading wings,
And showering fragrances.
I knew,
I believed,
That all their beauty remained,
Until they lived.
Then why me?
Why was I followed?
And plucked?
And thrown,
And dumped?
Why me?
WHY ME?
I cry hysterically.
I sob and weep,
And shout and yell,
Until a needle is pierced,
On my arm and I,
Collapse.
Wounded.
Broken.
Like fragments,
Of a vase!
A beautiful vase,
A black vase!
A coffined vase.

 .

Written by: Maria Imran *Randomly Abstract*

First published: http://www.firebirdpoetry.com/

© Copyright protected.

Left: Me drawing hatred Right: www.archdaily.com Edited: RandomlyAbstract

Left: I, Maria ‘Drawing hatred’
Right: archdaily.com
Edited: RandomlyAbstract

Perspective: No, its not me that I have written about, as some friends asked. This poem has been imagined and the effort was to write with the perspective of a little princess, a girl whose life has been destroyed in the hands of cruelty. A flower, a butterfly-chaser she was and got plucked even though she never picked or harmed them; those lovely, living creatures.
Critiques and additions are welcome. Feel free to send your opinions.
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