The moon has a sad face tonight,
It’s all alone in the dark
Watching people close their eyes,
Always oblivious to its beauty.
It wonders why people enjoy light
And open their eyes to it each morning,
But come inside and sleep at night.
The moon is alone in the sky
While we, too, are alone, sleeping
Until the sun wakes up.
Howls into the cold moon
And whispers into the warm sun.
I always find myself in the dark
Writing the same old poem.
Wishing for freedom
And dreaming of change,
But running out of words to say it.
When everyone’s fast asleep
I sit and wait for the night.
Because what sounds sane then,
Usually isn’t in the morning light.
The trees bleed in colours,
And the flowers bleed rainbows.
I, however, am black and white;
Plain as the newspaper at sight,
But follow a story when read.
I am made of the trees and flowers –
Those who bleed red, blue and green.
The words printed like a tattoo,
Just waiting for someone to read me;
Waiting for something new.
I ignored the summer sun,
The winter moon
And neglected the garden.
While I was pretending to be alone
I near expected the flowers to die.
When I felt like it I wandered out,
Only to find that they had lived.
They were alive and vibrant.
They had learned to live without me.
I could no longer tell which was which,
Or define their beauty,
Because they did not want to be known.
Not by I, the one who forgot them;
While I pretended to be alone.
White lilies and green grass.
One common and plain,
Another rare as broken glass.
One of them with a secret dream,
A desire to be purer and better,
To be white rather than green.
The other with vanity and pride.
Who would never know the pain
Of being brushed to the side.
The grass is covered in gravel.
But everyone steps aside in awe
While watching the flower unravel.
Soon enough their petals fall at will.
And everyone can see and hear,
Everyone notices the rain spill.
Underneath the soil is the unborn;
The seeds are slowly drowning.
They think it’s the end as they weep,
Because no one noticed them frowning.
Flowers and grass smell of rain,
But they do not grow anymore.
Their lives taken from the stem,
So they became tired and dead.
The daylight won’t shine anymore,
Not on them, not like before.