Life itself

pushed me back from

its shadowy breeze

and let me alone out in the sun.

It shredded me in such small fragments

that even finding the pieces

was improbable.

When I did find,

I couldn't reach up to them,

so far away they were,

and I could do nothing but

hold out my hand to the sky

and wait an eternity

for each of them

to fall in through the wind

and to think

that they'd beautify the wrinkles

I might be gathering at that time.

But I turned its each hateful trick

into a charm.

A charm that I didn't believe

I had the strength to bear,

I always thought of words as deceptive.

But when I summoned the pieces

of my being

instead of waiting for them hopelessly,

I realised I had the power to

enchant my pain

into words of poetry.

Through this strange magic,

I made the dried up flowers

to emanate fragrance

after they lost all hope of

ever be appealing.

I turned the unbearable shrieks

of my mind

into melancholic notes of music.

I counted sad words on my fingertips

and scattered them across a meadow,

as seedlings of sadness

so that they'd grow with graces of their own.

Each grew into a beautiful, sweet, little sapling.

Pain seeped out from my soul

and I spread it across a white facet

through the fragile tip of my pen

and burned its fiery existence

until all that was left of it

was ash.

People say that nights are the darkest.

That they can't handle the 2 a.m. blackness.

But what can one do

when the blackness persists at noon? At dusk? At twilight?

One cannot discard it.

One cannot possibly get rid of it.

Nothing but to make it seem

so alluring,

that it'd be desirable to the millions of hearts watching it.

It's weird how the blackness of the ink

somehow resembles the one that stays in my heart.

I found a way to be present

through time and space

even though

the only thing I've wanted to be in the past

was to be forgotten.

Forgotten through time

where none of it would matter,

what I am doing,

why I am doing it.

And my whole existence.

You see,

life believes that by

hurling me across

from nowhere to nowhere,

it'd destroy me.

What I did was

make each heartbreak,

each trauma,

each shred of pain,

into something so beautiful

that my psyche

couldn't comprehend

its own be-witchery.

People think they'd break me

through abandonment,

and hostility.

Little do they know,

they made me immortal

with the intention of bringing death up to me.

Little do they know

that the loss is theirs,

and the gain is all mine.

Little do they know

the power of power I possess.

The little blood I've left with,

give me pain

and I'll turn it into poetry.