Painted Poems

Make your life a poem. | W. Donovan © Copyrighted | Instagram: @painted_poems | Facebook: @painted.poem | WordPress: painted-poems.blog

[painted-poems]

Spell

'He suddenly turned to me and said: "I had something in my eye but I got it out now." And I looked at his eyes but they weren't red and there was no sign that he'd rubbed them. "How did he get it out? - I wondered. - And what was it?"'

It's funny how I still dream of you, even though it's been a year already. It's funny how I still think of you and see your face as clearly as it was only yesterday.

I've had so many conversations with you, it's insane. You haven't even been here. You weren't even there, when I spoke to your face.

If I asked 'what would you do, if the world ended tonight', what would your answer be?

The conversations were never fulfilled, no matter how badly I wanted to convince myself that they were. No matter what I imagined them to be.

I don't know why I want to meet you that one last time. It's probably because I've never really had my final word. And I want to say it out loud this time.

I wonder if you're still out there somewhere because I cursed you so many times, it would be almost impossible not to suffer from a severe internal pain.

I wonder if they left you all alone, as I predicted. Lingering only above the surface to gather the beautifully ripe red strawberries.

I wander if you still think of me because I know you did for a while, after it all collapsed like the tower.

Tell me. Will I ever be able to forget about you? Because for now I find myself constantly passing through the familiar tracks of my memories.

I'm quite certain I saw you the other day, most likely just with the eyes of my imagination, as usual. As always.

Regardless, please tell me, sweetie, what did you have in your eye? And why did you decide to tell me about it?

Was it my spell? Because I'm sure the metal dust is still stuck in your eyes. Blurring your vision of the reality.

It can only mean that, sadly, you got out of my reach. What a shame I cannot work my voodoo on you any longer.

[painted-poems]

Reflection

I called my friend the other day and wanted to tell them how lonely I felt. But everything was wrapped in reality too tightly. Should I really share it with someone whose mind is never on ease? Should I show the back of my hand, where words write themselves, to someone whom I keep only in my past?

Perhaps the honesty would've been easier, but I ended up saying nothing. After all, it was just loneliness, and many people struggle with that, with every minute of their damn lives.

Don't get me wrong, I know my feelings are valid. It's just… something I can live with. Potentially.

My only advantage is, I can always come back to my head. Sink deeply in my mind where I always feel whole. I can write stories and create events. I can make conversations that never happened. I can draw faces and I can draw places that never disappear.

I can always talk to you in my head.

Even though, you don't respond anymore.

I stare in every mirror, looking for your reflection. I look for your face on the streets, hoping to meet you one day. In the darkness, I can hear your voice calling my name. I close my eyes and I feel your warm arms around me, I can feel your soft lips on mine.

Being in my head is safe. Everything is colourful there, everything is interesting there. It's only when I get out, do I realize I am completely alone. With every cell of my body, do I feel the loneliness coating me like a blanket.

[painted-poems]

Dandelion

I'm not sure if I can be myself anywhere any more.

I don't have that freedom anymore.

The freedom that you gave me.

Everywhere I go, I am like a dandelion between beautifully blooming red velvet roses. I never stay.

I never meant to leave you, though.

With you, I could be myself. With a sad face, dry joke, sharp tongue and my sarcastic remarks. I could be myself and you never minded it.

I loved you for that, and I hate you for that right now. Just because no one else allows it.

And I miss it so badly. Every day.

And I hate myself because I cannot come back to where I was, and I cannot appreciate what I have right now.

I am on a hamster wheel made of my memories and photographs of your face, and I simply cannot step down.

Constant running makes me sick to my stomach. It makes me exhausted.

I wish I could come back to my life where there was no you in it. So that I would have never found out what I am. Coz, really, what was the point if it was brutally taken away from me?

[painted-poems]

Quicker

Do you sometimes wonder what your life would be like without people?

I often think it would be better.

I'm not talking about being the only human on the planet because that would be boring.

I am talking about solitude so deep and heavy that you don't allow people to come closer, when you live just next to them.

Imagine a life where you do whatever you want whenever you want without justifying yourself to others. When the words you say don't reach your heart, when your eyes show nothing but carelessness so lightly resting on your forehead.

There would be no expectations, no attachments, no liking. So that, you can easily walk away whenever you want.

Imagine a life when you have only yourself as company.

There's no way I can live on this earth without turning my heart into stone.

Please don't let me hide anymore, even though I want it so badly.

You probably call me a lunatic, a contradiction, a paradox.

Living without people would be easier, but the truth is that's not at all what I want. In fact, I want the exact opposite. I crave meaningful connections with people. Not jibber jabber. Words have a meaning. Words have power. Don't just spit them out.

The thing is, most people don't care whom they speak to, they speak only to fill the silence with speaking. It pains me a lot because it almost always means that I was just a random person amongst the crowd.

There's no point in remembering the conversation that we had, no point in getting attached to you, no point in getting attached to the place I wished to call home. The words that you toss so easily, they will float away from us, so that we could forget quicker.

It's because I was hurt so deeply, I'm ashamed to admit it even to myself. How can I say it out loud without acknowledging the fissures in my flesh, without acknowledging the slimy blood covering my hands.

[painted-poems]

22 Diaries. Story nineteen

Perhaps, it's because they don't know they're afraid of a foreign face marble pale.

Perhaps, it's because they know they could never allow for it to take everything like a thief.

How can I say a word, now if I know that my speech will reveal every single flaw. Exposed.

I'll be stood there with all the eyes on me. Judging, what the hell am I worth if not a coin.

Certainly, not something to be accepted easily nor obvious enough to be rejected.

What on earth are you still doing here. If you can't go back without turning back. What on earth?

Perhaps, it wasn't worth it if your own mother didn't care. Perhaps, I was the one who didn't care if I left so effortlessly.

Shall I ever find the answer in the mouths of pleasers.

They will never understand.

They will never accept the truth for what it is.

Just don't reveal your name and keep your mouth shut, for they will always look at you differently.

Don't even try.

It'll get you nowhere.

[painted-poems]

22 Diaries. Story eighteen

I don't know why I thought it was temporary.

I don't know why I thought I would go back there at some point. I guess, it still feels unrealistic. I guess, I've never accepted it.

All I wanted was to be there. All I wanted was to be next to you. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And not seeing your face for so long, it feels like something is stealing pieces of my soul, until there's nothing left.

You know, you still travel with me everywhere I go. And like a lunatic I've been talking to myself with your voice, hoping one day you're going to say the exact same words.

I opened my mouth and wanted to say words I would never say to anyone.

I opened my arms and wanted to give the warmth I would never give to anyone.

I wanted to talk to you about so many things, yet my lips went sealed once I saw the clasped hands on your lap. In that moment I felt like you didn't treat me like your friend.

In that moment I realized that you weren't my friend.

I realized that I didn't have friends.

I was alone.

[painted-poems]

22 Diaries. Story seventeen

I'm disinterested. I'm bored. I'm sad.

I was forced to take a step back. That left me hanging, that left me lost. I thought this chapter was behind me, and yet again, I find myself standing here. On a pile of stained sheets, showing me the faces of my past.

I feel trapped. But the worst part is that I cannot see a way out. I'm in a limbo.

I'm trapped in my past in my misery in my thoughts

Life's like a labyrinth where all I can see are blank walls with no signs.

My goals are so clear and simple in my head. It's the world and its humans that make them impossible to achieve.

That makes me realize that my goals are unrealistic, and all what I am is just a daydreamer.

Just drop it and live the life you've got, you silly girl. It's never going to work.

[painted-poems]

22 Diaries. Story sixteen

Dr Ellman once said that only we can make sense of our lives.

So, if I cannot find sense then the life doesn't make sense right?

Looking for the point is like looking for the feeling that, perhaps, has never been in you.

You try to grab their physical edges, while they tiresomely blur away within your memories. Within dreams that used to be alive.

Your life mixed with illusion and high expectations, crashed like a simple machine that you entrusted your life to.

your dreams escaped your flesh exposed now you're lost and sad

[painted-poems]

22 Diaries. Story fifteen

I've been through a traumatic event. Yet again.

When she stared at me. With recognition. Where the chemical signals refuse to comply. There's only nonsense. I'm hallucinating.

I burst into tears. Feeling the skeleton arms around my neck. I chocked on the past. Wondering if it was her at all. Wondering if it wasn't her fault at all.

How did it happen. Why did it hit me so hard, when I'd found myself coldhearted before. Perhaps, a spark jumped on my skin. Evoked the yearning in one's heart.

Standing next to her half of my life. It soaked me to the bone. Having it in me, I never escaped. No matter how far I'd run away.

Soaked in her blood. Always with her. I'll always be her.

[painted-poems]

22 Diaries. Story fourteen

Dear You

I never thanked you for the note that you left on my desk the other day. I'm still not sure if the words were meaningful or meaningless. Are they a pearl or a piece of glass found on the bottom of an ocean?

I would have been blessed that I'd met you, if only I accepted your help. Otherwise it's pointless, like breathing under the water. What if you were my salvation and I just passed you by, walked away without looking back?

I never reached out to you, even though I knew I should have. Even though you were the one who offered the advice. You were so nice to me, and I feel so bad for not doing anything, for not saying a word.

It's killing me because I know I will never be able to ask for help. I wished and I prayed for you to ask again. But it never happened. My phone was unbearably silent only to die only a week later.

Perhaps, I was afraid to say all the words aloud because that would mean that they were true, and all I wanted was to walk in the haze of illusion to make everything less hurtful. To delude myself.

You must know, though, that I wrote a hundred letters to you, all in my head, they never made their way through the line of my eyelashes. Now is too late for the universe collapsed, burying me under the castle that never had any foundations.

I'm so sorry. Not even know why. You probably didn't care

anyway.

[painted-poems]

22 Diaries. Story thirteen

So, the other day I watched a youtube video called 'I don't want to be here anymore'. When I saw it, it hit me like a wave of cold water. Because those words are the exact words I've been telling myself lately.

My life changed so suddenly, so quickly. What I've got left now are only memories. Memories of delusions I'd been fed with or, perhaps, delusions I created out of the words I'd heard. Delusions I wanted to believe in.

'Unexpected visitors' knocked on my door. I was reluctant to let them in, though. So tightly wrapped up in the luxury and easy life, given to me on a golden tray. But that life is not there anymore, and what I've got left are pieces of a broken shell strewn on my bedroom floor that I walk on everyday, letting my feet bleed.

No. I do not care anymore.

You can tell me whatever you want.

No. I do not listen anymore.

[painted-poems]

22 Diaries. Story twelve

[painted-poems]

22 Diaries. Story eleven

How did I find myself there? Why?

That's the questions I keep asking myself.

At first I thought it was a great place to grow and learn new things. It wasn't.

Then I thought it was about you, because I've never experienced a connection like this before. But you turned out to be a liar.

Then why?

I believe that things happen for a reason, hence the questions I keep asking myself over and over again. Why?

This story was supposed be addressed to you, but I don't feel like I can trust you anymore. So, there it is as follows:

I know I've been here before, in this place. All the people and all the events. I've met them, I've seen them. The feeling is so strong that I almost cannot deny that this is the right thing, no matter how wrong it may seem.

You once told me that everything is written in the stars, that She plays every part in our lives, that everything gets Her way. I remember that came with such a relieve, because it meant that we don't have to worry about anything…

Perhaps, the thing I thought I was wasn't true. Perhaps, I believed in the image of me that people created. Hearing everyday how good and unique I was, I believed I was good and unique. Perhaps, what I am is the thing I am right now. Nothing more.

All the things I learnt were just useless things easy to learn. Life itself wasn't written in the book, though. That's why I didn't know how to learn it. That's why I don't know how to live a life that doesn't go beyond the cover of the book. The real life.

And this is what makes a lot of sense.

[painted-poems]

22 Diaries. Story ten

Once I said to someone that I felt drained, out of energy, mentally tired. They asked: 'Why won't you do something for yourself?'

I assume he wanted to suggest I buy something to myself or travel somewhere or go out for a dinner. The thing is, I do a lot for myself. I buy myself flowers, I take baths with bubbles, I eat chocolate, I travel a lot and I buy pretty things.

As a half orphan I feel the sense of abandonment under my skin. I learnt that you can never rely on other people. It doesn't matter what they say and how many promises they make. They can never love you as much as you can love yourself. So, yeah, believe me I know how to take care of myself. Physically… at least.

I do not believe that material possessions can heal your crying soul. Wonder why I'm so tired? Because I was dismissed. Because my skills apparently meant nothing. Because I wasn't good enough. That is what pains me more. You do not have to love me, but you have to need me as a professional. Without it I feel useless.

The forgotten dreams lie heavily on me, crashing my inner self of belonging, where towers collapse releasing demons, which chase me every day.

And this is where it begins...

[painted-poems]

22 Diaries. Story nine

Dear You

I hope you are (un)well.

I am writing because I have a lot to say, or a lot on my mind I should say.

You probably do not think about me. You probably erased me from your thoughts like chalk from a board. That is what you do, is it not? You erase everyone and everything that brings a whit of contemplation. A life on a white board, where you feel nothing. Where you see nothing but your notes.

You probably do not know what damage you caused. You probably are comfortably sat back in your chair already. I cannot blame you really, since I knew what you were. An egocentric, deprived of empathy, living only in his circle and caring only what's in it. Like the robots that you build.

You probably do not know how much I cared. You probably do not realize how important it was to me. Being in a place where the sun shines at you in a midday. It does not matter, though, because you turned out to be a snake, swimming in the calm waters of my life.

Tell me now how do I explain myself to other people without telling lies. Tell me now why should I engage with people, knowing how cold they can turn.

I do not care what you have to say. I do not care if you hate me. I do not care if you like me. I do not care about anything anymore. I just want to be alone.

That is what they did to me.

(not) Yours Sincerely

© W. Donovan

[painted-poems]

22 Diaries. Story eight

Hi lovely people.

Have you ever read a fairytale where a princess becomes a maid? No? That's because there isn't one.

Usually, it's the other way round, right? Poor girl finding a prince, lost princess finding her family, princess finding her purpose, queen finding her freedom. All of these stories have happy endings, there's no tales about girls who lose everything, never getting anything instead. Why? Because no one wants to read about unhappy endings.

I put on a dress and I pretend to be a lady. I talk like a lady. I walk like a lady. I smile like a lady. But all I want to do is scream and dance on the streets of my imagination.

Is that what society wants me to believe in?

They say that life writes best scenarios. I disagree. Because if that was true no one would write stories. Any stories.

Life doesn't write anything. It just sits on your chair passing by, waiting for you to die. Life doesn't care. If you stand still, you're going to stay still.

Do you believe in fate? In an invisible force that takes you to the path where you belong. It doesn't matter what decision you make, doesn't matter where you go, doesn't matter what people you meet... You're always going to end up in the place where the universe assigned you to.

That makes a lot of sense for me right now. And knowing that is devastating and relieving at the same time. Why should I try if my trying doesn't bring me the desired outcome? Why should I put all my energy in something that is not meant for me? I only caused myself pain and now everything hurts me inside.

Someone who was born in dirt will always end up in dirt. I cannot fool my destiny. I cannot fool myself.

Life doesn't have a happy ending. No one truly cares about you, and in the end you die anyway.

© W. Donovan

[painted-poems]

22 Diaries. Story seven

Dear Reader. I must tell you, that nothing is for free in this world.

When you feel like something came easily to you, that should be a warning sign to you. For things that come easily are never worth it and, sooner or later, you're going to pay for them. Except the price will be high. You'll pay with your tears, with blood and flesh. They will leave you scarred for life.

How do I move on now, when all I feel is your warm embrace. When all I feel is your cheek on my cheek.

You broke me, drained the energy out of me, took away all my warmth. What do I have now, when I have nothing? When I don't have you…

Perhaps, caring too much is my problem. Caring about things that aren't mine... and will never be.

Just be an icicle. Exchange smiles. But stay indifferent. Like they all do. Hate everything and everyone around you, so that it'll be easier to just leave. Is that the solution?

Perhaps, I shouldn't have treated you like a friend. Perhaps, you shouldn't have acted like my friend.

Tell me now, why shouldn't I crawl back in the shell, not showing any signs of interest anymore.

I wish I could say I don't care. I wish I could say I don't… But I still want to be… I want you to be around.

But the only thing around me right now is the emptiness and the memory of your face leaning against mine.

The open wound in my stomach, dripping with rust on the fluffy surface of the conversations that never took place.

Remember, nothing is for free in this world.

© W. Donovan