To Paint a Star—Colors of My Evening
It is such silent outside, unwavering wind and predetermined smile—a major part of my pleasant shine besides the colorless evening. And to draw what the skies feel upon thy affection towards the rainforests—it shall never spill and what is the color of your happiness now that everyone’s dry.
Grey and partly withdrawn—there isn’t any painting left to portray the tendency to talk or smile which is such a deceive. Sheets lubricated with unending words and pointless questions—ones that always defined me as a human. To see that everyone is busy painting, and each color that has already been plagiarized—why is there so much perfection, now that everyone is almost as even as the last star.
Looking at my pale skin and the shadows of my sketches—it’s the thing that never defined me as a human but everyone thought that it did. I was asked to be an extroverted frangipani but my heart could never appreciate such distinctiveness—perhaps I was better off without my own confessions.
If only—red and white wishes out of blurry walls and blue stains of articulateness. My heart is a ruler but I was never asked to draw any straight line—off all that I may have been compelled into believing, urges and rainbows that shed my nights like I was nothing.
Sometimes it’s blossoming but mostly italicized with open questions. If my room were to start undressing—I would have drawn me a beautiful cloud—instead it’s the tempests that have always been attracted to me. What is there any difference—if any?
The laws of attraction once stated—and the boldness of my erect skin that would have me dancing at my own sentencing. The wives have become much wiser—for they only cheat twice a week and all that Romeo does, weep over his first love time and again.
Sounds of damaged art—or if fall was meant to be any fairer, the mind that is never able to comprehend. Shelves stacked with countless books—ones that defined you as a human buy it never did. In fact, all that the lines did, replicate the same art over and over again. And what does it even mean to express something that is incomprehensible?
I like to be a little drunk at times only to realize that chances in haven are always worth living. But these drowsy pills will never understand—or what is the color of my thoughts if one were to start spilling black roses on top of my majorly absent mind.
The paint, it has always been about the tone—if evenings weren’t such brutal and the stillness wasn’t such rare. Walking for the past three days but the sheets never spell—what is the right paint or if there exists one, why aren’t the skies in align—pity in progressive nights that will draw itself a beautiful tempest in perfection. No one ever understands or what is the color of my silk that will undress me twice tonight.
-Yogesh Chandra