"I heard the old, old men say, all that is Beautiful drifts away" -James Joyce

I've never seen wild things cry from a broken heart.

so Why, then, do I not envy such things.

Some say they are running towards freedom.

But I say they are just running away

You are not tamed nor will you ever be tamed

and For this, I respect your audacity.

But how dare you shake the apples from my tree

and leave me bare.

I watched you take a single bite of the fruit

That of which has fallen from my very limbs.

It satisfied your empty stomach

and that was enough.

It was not until you were full and ready

Did you started running again.

I've never seen proud men grow.

I have seen them smile, but never for someone else.

You may hide behind your golden mask

But I will never try to see through it.

And neither will the peasants who worship your throne.

For them,

Nothing more had caught their eye but the shine to your dollar.

The stench of self-pity and mourning fills this room.

Could it be the Sorrow hanging on your back?

I have never seen a wilted flower bloom again.

When spring came, still, it did not bloom.

The flower that has lived in winter for the past plenty years

Will never know,

That I must have wished upon it 10 times over.

You are blinded by the never ending rivers that flow against the banks of your pigmented skin

I waited for the rains to die down and the clouds to clear

But it never did

And I wasn't going to wait for another spring,

To fall in love with you.

I've never seen a mirror with a face but that of someone else's.

Why do I feel robbed?

I wake up at dawn

Every day self-assured and confident

But the Devil greets me when I look at the world.

Envy.

And now I am small.

I build myself up again with fallacies

And pretty looking things.

Tonight I will go to sleep with a different face on.

Who am I, she says.

I have never heard the color Red speak.

Nor do I want to hear what it has to say.

To me, Red might sound like a shade of orange

And I should not enjoy

Being confused.

A woman will never fall in love with the man who only swoons her with flattery

Too many are the sweet words that fall off his tongue

No longer are they as sweet,

With each word she begins to hear what sounds like "Hello."

When the book of poetry in your head has run out

I wonder what next will you have to recite.

May you glow Red,

And nothing more

You must know how Beautiful you are

In your truest of hues.