The color of orange

Often,
what I write on the paper is a letter
to the heaven,
a prayer from a non-believer and
a request for you to become the providence.

Believe me,
I am not a curse.
I am an art which comes out of
the brush of pain
one draws from the palette of heartaches.

I am tired of
reborn every morning as a prince of darkness
to wear the black crown of depression,
and my body can endure arrows of anxiety
but not an image of bad personage
built in your mind.

Would you become the providence
and kiss the devil inside my soul to free it
from the cage of dilemma and this tinder life?

Because
now I want to be the color of orange,
one could see in your eyes during the sunsets
on Galway Bay in Ireland.

And my poems,
they are just the tiny droplets of a cloud
you left in my heart to burst.