By Nahnah Najeeb
I dip my sore fingers into the bleeding poetry,
After tearing the hairs of my art brush,
To paint you.
I sit by the shores of my imagination
and stain my thoughts on to the paper,
reluctantly aching over and over again
on an unsung song.
I can't come home 'cause
I have my heart trapped in the lungs,
I can't breathe,
I can't feel.
I am a puppet with broken strings.
But tell me,
Why should I paint you, my darling,
I'm a roofless building,
Incapable of holding you,
Unable to latch your world,
And I inhale this crushed air of love and war,
And you, my darling,
Is a soft monument.
To you,
To the painting I'll never paint,
don't dream an inch of colours and joy,
I empower voids with hints of gold
and tasteless words from my tongue.
So you,
To the painting I'll never paint,