Notes About The Poem
This poem is written to describe how an individual with Borderline Personality disorder sometimes feel, when they go through splitting. When they see everything in black or white or good or bad and form a defense mechanism called splitting, leaving them exhausted from extreme emotional fluctuations, unable to grasp reality. BPD can sometimes be formed due to early childhood abandoment or abuse. The poem here describes how they feel like everything is fading during splitting.
Splitting Sunsets
Sometimes my soul
resembles distant horizons,
like burning stars
abandoned between
dusk and dawn.
When the
sky hangs
as heavy as
my hazy heart,
I search for a sign
from heaven
to soothe
the somber sequences
of nature blanketing
mountains of misery,
as the spectrum of
colors is full of deception.
Maybe the universe
illustrates splitting
sunsets within
my murky thoughts,
As I'm oblivious to
the rhythm of
riveting songs of spring.
I sing
tunes of autumn,
orchestrated in
black and white,
grey refrains remain
locked as an encrypted
mystery of winter land,
within
esoteric hieroglyphics
blowing as
tornadoes of hurt.
I am envious of the
sound of comforting rain,
and clouds
carrying chaos-
weeping reveries of angst.
But what if these
translucent tears
and the anxiety I
try to hide,
fall like
mists of
haunting memories,
to follow the moon-glade,
ruffling along
sterling ripples,
unravelling
jasmine compassion
across rivers of
scattered gems,
would I then feel
the light of love,
synchronize
a eucalyptus lullaby
that sketches
amethyst amulets
through
midnight fears,
to embrace these
fragile dandelion wishes,
behind metaphorical
fields of periwinkle flowers.
My dreams are fading,
whilst darkness whirls
in unending circles.
I am barely breathing,
as the silhouette of
a pale sapphire
shatters into a
sea of sadness.
For you have
cast a shadow
upon the sun
within my mind,
and all that's left
in this eclipsed realm
is the petrichor scent
of healing,
amidst
the dying petals
in my balcony,
that mimic flames of
life and betrayals.
Maybe, it is from
the aftermath of storms,
we flourish rainbow
roses soaked
in redolent incense-
roaming through
an opaque canvas of clarity.
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