With words, I could paint galaxies,
I could number every star, capture
its light, its blazing beauty
against the endless sapphire sky.
With words, I could build cities,
skyscrapers, and bodies bustling
in smouldering streets,
midday reflecting bold, white gold,
cloudless in an idle daydream.
With words, I’d pencil your portrait.
Every line and shadow,
every piercing gaze. Decipher desires
from the sparkle in your eye
the slight tint in your cheek.
This I could, but won’t.
For my words hold only fragments
of beauty, traces of scenery
once seen, once heard,
and once cherished.
My words become empty shells.
Pretence in pretty paper.
If these words lie within me,
I am an empty shell.
Pretence wrapped in pretty paper.
[Today, I wanted to write a riveting post about things that I learnt during exams week, but I’m still sort of reeling from it. I need more time to recover. So, instead, I’m sharing another one of my older poems. It’s about writing and the beauty and magic of words, but it’s also about how sometimes you feel as if you haven’t got enough substance in you to string those pretty words together in a way that matters.]