"So beautiful."
There is an art in noticing;
Light reflects off every surface, after all,
but finding beauty in tragedy
is an art that I learnt
without ever being taught.
To find wonder in creation,
no matter what the notebook insists
beauty should be.
A wilted flower stomped on
over a hundred times a day,
lies dramatically on the sidewalk,
as if inviting me to sketch the image
on a plain canvas.
A tiny ant carrying sugarcubes
to-and-fro, beckoning for me to
join it in its endeavours.
An off-key melody,
still enchanted despite
being deemed incorrect, as if
enticing others to convince it
otherwise.
A spider, frozen in monochrome,
spinning its web, its home, waving at me
to make me realise its magnificence.
People, rushing about in their hurried lives,
as if part of a much bigger plan,
as if simple notes of an entire symphony,
daring me to call them out.
Words, hurting like the ones I hear and wish to unrecall,
comforting like the ones I yearn to listen spoken to myself,
are filled with divine tenderness, as if coaxing me into
having my fill of poetry.
The moon, the sun, the ocean, the sky, the land,
filled with meticulous grace, as if painted skillfully
by the hands of a great creator, of whom we praise,
awestruck.
Tell me then, if I find this beauty everywhere,
even in places nobody could ever deem pretty,
why does it feel impossible to find beauty
in the mirror that reflects myself?
One would expect the admirer to admire herself at least,
but how do I tell you, that I'm destined to remain unseen;
Always the poet, never the poem;
Always the writer, never the written;
Always the lover, never the loved;
Always the moon, never moonstruck;
Always the sunshine, never the sunstruck;
Always the seeker, never the desired?