Flowers in my graveyard.

I bury a million flowers in my graveyard,
All that hides my pain.
Each flower is a façade. 
Each stem is a cry. 
I bury all my pain in secrets,
And all my secrets in flowers 
All those flowers in my graveyard 
And my beautiful graveyard in my heart.

Whenever my heart cries, 
Or when my eyes bleed. 
I shall pick all the white roses— 
The ones that already picked my bloody tears. 
I'll arrange them in a vase, 
A vase in my bleak living room. 
I'll place those flowers in my home.
I'll let my blood decorate my life.

I'd let you into my place, 
Perhaps let you creep through the window. 
But can your eyes spot the difference? 
Between the red roses and mine bloody ones. 

                                                                              If we humans can be poetry, I think I'm a metaphor. I know two languages very fluently, English, the language of my brain, and Telugu, the language I was born into. Yet, the language that lets me flow even more freely is Poetry, and if I'm being specific, metaphors. Ever since I was young, ever since I started weaving poetry, even if my words were wrong and my grammar was horrendous. One thing that always stood out was my ability to be metaphorical. If i, as a poet, am dissected, then the quality of my works would lie in poetry. And this particular poem right here— it's a meta-poem. 

I have an inability to express my pain. I was raised that way because those who show the world how they bleed— they get stabbed. Growing up, crying is vulnerable. I cannot, should not, must be vulnerable. I do not have a prince or a knight to protect me from the monsters; all I have is myself. This is probably why poetry has become such a home for me, where I could hide all pain beneath a paint, and show everyone the work, the world would praise my art, and their eyes would be blind to the tragedy. 

Ever since I discovered the Victorian language of flowers, it has been my way of showing the messages that I would otherwise be scared to pen down. I hide myself beneath those petals, in all 300 kinds of them. I weave my pain accordingly to the floriography. I bury them in my soil, where they grow off my tears, where my happiness is their sunshine. I caress each flower with my weathered palms. I let the thrones prick me, I let that pain remind me of being alive. 

The beauty of my graveyard is a garden full of pain. What makes life more beautiful than tragedy and despair? How can pearls of the ocean be comparable to the pearls that fall from my eyes? Whenever I feel sad, whenever my heart cries. The blood from my eyes falls onto the pure white roses; every time I cry, a rose gets tainted. The white roses of sanity, drenched in the blood of my insanity. I carefully cut all those bloodied roses, I take them into my house, to be closer to them, so I can hide them away from the prying eyes of my neighbours. I do not wish anyone's concerned gaze to embrace my blood-bathed roses. I do not wish the brows of my loved ones to scrunch up taking my pain, I do not wish my roses to be a heavy burden to their hearts. So, I take them all away, not in shame nor in pride, but in fear of being a sore sight. 

I pick up a vase that has been broken a million times, the vase that held itself together with golden glue. I place my roses gently in that vase, which is heavy enough to break it one more time. I gently pick up the heavy vase, my steps struggling to carry the burden, my arms straining being wrap around it. I place it in my living room, amidst red roses. Sometimes, if you visit my heart, and if I love you and trust you. I'd let you peek through the window, I'd let you see my pain. I do not look back at your face, I am too frightened for that. I may be brave enough to strip myself and bear you my vulnerability, but I am too timid to look into your eyes and see what you might be feeling. 

But tell me, dear creeper of my heart, can your eyes discern the difference between those red roses and mine bloody ones? Can your heart sense the oddity of my room? Would you feel the heaviness of my roses and fragility of my vase? Can your untainted nose pick up the foulness of my blood?

Can you see the pain that I hide in my metaphors?