Blue, Pink, Grey

Blue, Pink, Grey

The strangest thing I’ve seen her do is build a sky on her own. She took a piece of paper and a blue crayon and started coloring from the top left. She colored diagonally, and when she was half-way through, I thought she’d stop and pick up a different color to finish. The sky’s never all blue. Sometimes a little red seeps in and it can look beautiful and at other times, it’s white, full of clouds, as if it is a clean slate for you to look at and reboot. It blushes pink sometimes because there are so many poets constantly flirting with the sky. And sometimes, the sky sees people for what they are and goes grey.

limitless.

limitless.

Someone said to me,
“the sky is just a glass dome
shielding us from a cold world where we
wouldn’t survive
and when it’s dark outside
you can see the snow collected on the sky,”
and there are three things about this snowfall sky
that I have a problem with,
personally, globally, creatively.

One.
I’ve always looked up at the sky
no matter where I am.
I’ve looked up
from grass, sand, rooftops,
even the deathbeds of my friends.
My backdrop keeps changing
but the sky has always been my
go-to repeat binge-watching show.
I draw inspiration from it
and you’re telling me that something
that makes me so strong
also shatters?
I don’t believe that.
If you do that to me,
then my knees will give out
and buckle so bad
you’ll call it an earthquake.

Two.
Humans are so strong,
I am so strong
that I’d survive a god-made apocalypse
made of just broken hope stories
where finding love is like solving
an eleven by infinite-eleven Rubik’s.
The girls I’ve loved
were so brave
that even after breaking down,
they would always stand back up,
heal themselves,
help others,
and love again and again.
The cities I’ve known stand so tall
that sometimes they break through the snowfall sky
and even then,
they never look down
on me or my billion friends.
The gods I’ve loved are so human
and the humans I’ve loved are so god,
that you should trust me when I say,
we would survive anything.

Three.
Maybe I can picture a glass dome and
a weird, cold, unknown world
but I refuse to creatively believe
that if this world is a home that science couldn’t find
then gravity works there the same way.
In that world,
snow goes up,
people fly but want to walk,
and everybody rises in love.
The bad people go further up to hell,
and the good people fall through their soil
and our sky
into human lives.

And so,
I will not believe
that we’re the heart
and the sky is just the ribcage,
no matter how nice that sounds.

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Into stories? – Strip-poetry
Instagram – @myspirals

Dilruba Samandar

Dilruba Samandar

I tried very hard to make this not so crazy. Tell me if it worked? Comment down below and let me know if you liked it, if there should’ve been any changes, or anything else. If you really really like it, share it with people.

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“When I was seven, my father and I went on a little trip to a city close by for five days. A mini-vacation to Bologna filled with questions and games. On the fourth day, when we were both tired of the games, I decided to ask him all kinds of questions. There were questions about Shakespeare and Frost, about Pizza and cheese, about answers I’d never gotten in my bedtime stories, and about mom. When I asked him why mom wasn’t with us anymore, he answered it with a sentence that shaped my life enough that I ended up here.”