Saturday, 9 May 2015

My Story

My story flows from my sorrow,
Its jagged edges, a red, reeling heart.

My story is born of my sin,
Deliciously secret, guilt caressing its dirty lips.

My story is born of my love,
Deep, yielding, fraught, delicate, ever more and never again.

My story is filled with my dreams.
Feather-light, they fill me to bursting. And then some more.

My story speaks of desperation
Of dried-up tears, dashed hopes and itchy scars.

My story has the rabid spirit of vengeance,
Of the embers of anger, the ashes of wrath.

My story has splashes of furore,
Of restlessness, and wandering monkeys.

My story is made up in my mind
And lived on the crackling veneer of reality.

My story is made up of my words,
An experiential vocabulary, my eye fixated on syllables that will fit just right.

But really, my story has no beginning, nor end;
It's a speck, it's but nothing in the endless swirl of the Hourglass.

3 comments:

Benny Dominic said...

Your words are compellingly striking, effortlessly conveying and hauntingly touching... And it’s nothing less than a crime from your part, to be not writing more often… Shed your laziness; do total justice to what you are blessed with immensely…

Sumi Thomas said...

Thank you for stopping by. I just saw your comment. And hehe... the 'laziness' part, it's more like a lack of scheduling blogging into my writing. Hope 2016 will be a better blogging year.

Ravinder Arora said...

Your story has yet to be described fully. He he. . !! Great job.

Saturday, 9 May 2015

My Story

My story flows from my sorrow,
Its jagged edges, a red, reeling heart.

My story is born of my sin,
Deliciously secret, guilt caressing its dirty lips.

My story is born of my love,
Deep, yielding, fraught, delicate, ever more and never again.

My story is filled with my dreams.
Feather-light, they fill me to bursting. And then some more.

My story speaks of desperation
Of dried-up tears, dashed hopes and itchy scars.

My story has the rabid spirit of vengeance,
Of the embers of anger, the ashes of wrath.

My story has splashes of furore,
Of restlessness, and wandering monkeys.

My story is made up in my mind
And lived on the crackling veneer of reality.

My story is made up of my words,
An experiential vocabulary, my eye fixated on syllables that will fit just right.

But really, my story has no beginning, nor end;
It's a speck, it's but nothing in the endless swirl of the Hourglass.

3 comments:

Benny Dominic said...

Your words are compellingly striking, effortlessly conveying and hauntingly touching... And it’s nothing less than a crime from your part, to be not writing more often… Shed your laziness; do total justice to what you are blessed with immensely…

Sumi Thomas said...

Thank you for stopping by. I just saw your comment. And hehe... the 'laziness' part, it's more like a lack of scheduling blogging into my writing. Hope 2016 will be a better blogging year.

Ravinder Arora said...

Your story has yet to be described fully. He he. . !! Great job.