Have you ever heard, of a story told in words
Painted in your mind, and burned into your heart?
Of each time a statement so significant, would not be forgotten by one, and instead cursed (or blessed) to never forget;
Where words to be heard, inspires the mind to bring out it's canvas, paint it's joys or sorrows away, and hang the painting up, for no one else but one to see?
I'll tell you a tale, of a woman no one knows the name of,
But her story is to be remembered, as a tale children hear, at night from their parents' whispers
Of a woman, who could not forgot, a significant line from those she held dear,
Both a blessing
And a curse
At first, it was her mother
The drip, drip, dripping of "Honey" from her lips
It trickled itself into her mind, fed her heart
It was syrupy, like a sweet treat after a hard day
It was her first love, and one that was to never to be taken from her,
Second, was from her brother,
"I hate you!"
It was discordant, all written in static, it hurt, she could see and hear the insincerity in this declaration,
She apologized shortly after, their small little quarrel, she'd rather never hear or see, that horrid line of hurt, much less would she want that insincerity, become no longer.
Next was her lover,
Name known to none but family and her,
"Sweetheart"
In a loopy handwriting, full of curled arcs and elongated inking, red, cherry red in color
She tucks this memory in her arms, and placed it high in her mind, never to forget
Last was her former love,
Name known to none but her family and her,
"I've found someone"
It was covered in roses, but with roses come thorns
And those thorns dug through her heart, wrapped itself around her mouth
Left her speechless and in tears,
A tale of a woman, who could not forget,
A tale of someone, who wishes to never paint any words again,
A tale that warns children
Be careful with what you say, because sometimes, people are cursed not to forget
A tale that warns them all,
Not all love will end sweet.
- C.M
YOU ARE READING
Prose and Poetry
PoetryA book by C.M Where the wasteland lies south, up north is the islands, and each island differs from the last. Whether it be burnt to ashes mixed into white sand, or flowerbeds pressed into the soil, or thorns of something bitter and gripping, or the...
