Sweet

You Can’t Force Art

You can’t force art.

That statement has long been in my mind since I skipped blogging for a month, I just can’t seem to bring the words straight out. Since then, I have published three posts which imply that very thought. And two of them share a connection surprising enough for me to write about it.

October last year, I wrote “the pen ran out of ink,” sharing how I kept writing but stopped publishing for a while, the reason being I barely get to finish a piece I could proudly put out, and claiming that my ink needs to stop bleeding from time to time, just like my heart. February of this year, “Inks and Pain” came out, and in it I talked about struggling to produce bittersweet or sad stories because my heart stopped bleeding at once—almost as if it’s feeling no more—driving me to ask for pain when it rains, so my ink could bleed again.

It’s not just because of the ink that the connection was made (I just really like that word) but more so with the contrast of emotion from both posts which affected its bleeding. The abundant feelings of last year obstructed me to write but the emptiness of today doesn’t make it any different. Even this post took me a while to make!

Now I rarely write down ideas on tissue papers and receipts or on anything I could take a hold of, my Notes don’t receive sudden thoughts I could turn into poetry, I am lost for words and my mind is probably still on vacation.

You can’t force art, but you can force yourself not to think too much about it and try out other things and just live. And maybe then, art will introduce itself again.

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Poetry

lost for words

Words
swirling around my head
My writing voice
screaming

Tone
distinctively heard
My creative hand
hesitating

P.S. You can’t force art—what I’m implying with this micropoem. I’m gonna elaborate on this soon. Wink

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Sweet

of lights and shadows

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Shadows, one of my favorite things on Earth.

There’s been a lot of stories about shadows and it’s surprising that I have only created a single poem about it and a very short one at that. Probably because my fascination with shadows give me joy, unlike the melancholic feeling I get with the rain, sun, or moon. And when you’re happy you rarely think of anything else, you just smile and take the moment in.

P.S. I have more shadow pictures but it seems like I’m only fascinated with my shadow lol.

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Poetry

live with lies

My throat hurts
so bad,
I can’t speak.

A big chunk of fear
blocking the way,
preventing courage
to pass by
and push honesty
outside.

My throat hurts
so bad,
I have to lie.

I push honesty aside.

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Strange

Inks and Pain

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It has become unusually harder for me to create bittersweet stories which evoke a bit of melancholia ever since pain stopped knocking on my heart.

I am questioning myself if I could still feel something, anything—anger, bitterness, frustration, shame, love, sadness—towards some certain people in my life and how important that emotion is in our relationship, but I’m afraid at times I feel empty because there is nothing to feel.

I oppose being empty, my mind resists engaging at the very thought of it, my heart stubbornly refuses to believe it is real, that it could happen, especially to me.

I who have joined the bandwagon of cold people claiming they have empty hearts when they are really just lonely. I who turned sadness into art whenever tears reach the tip of my tongue, or even when tears haven’t come. I who became overly familiarized with pain that I recognize it in other people’s eyes and understand it with my heart. I who thinks of welcoming pain again in my life, just so I could divert my attention in feeling nothing when there could be everything, or even just a thing.

The rain used to make my ink bleed with pain, now I’m asking pain to make my ink bleed when it rains.

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Strange

I know what you did last December

To the one who liked me,

I know what you did last December. You hugged me, we were sleeping next to each other. I let you, I was trying to feel if my heart will waver.

But your hand on my stomach didn’t even make the butterflies come out, your breath on my head didn’t even bring any shiver down.

Swallowing for air, both of us are aware. Awake and aware. Pretending to sleep, we decided not to care.

In case you’re reading, I apologize for having written this down to paper. It’s just hard to ignore the words once they appear in front of you and make you remember. But I guess it’s not hard to ignore this particular letter, just like how we ignored what you did last December.

From the girl who liked another man

P.S. Some details are tweaked for privacy purposes. 

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Poetry

the cry of a siren

arouse me with your tempting eyes and fill all my holes with the intensity of your stares

make me come with you in ways only your sick intelligence and eerie heart could create

feed me with your fond lies slowly wrapping my soul in each word of your sweet and raspy voice

please me with your godly existence and persuade me to stay at the heaven of your choice

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