The Night I Walked Away

Poetry

Then the stage lights dimmed
As slow as my heavy breathing
A band of nine started to sing
As I walked farther from him

It was a night of pain and glee
Though the songs hit me badly
All my illusions became blurry
Then I turned light and free

The band stopped playing
But the lights are still dim
I casually left on a whim
Without him even caring

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Achromatic

Poetry

I rode a motorcycle this morning,
something I usually do.
When the sun hits my face
I closed my eyes,
something I barely do.

Opening them would be a surprise,
one thing I rarely get.
Everything was colorless
but I was sparkling,
something I never get.

It was all an illusion though,
and you were there.
Achromatic like everyone else
but I was sparkling,
and I’m always by myself.

Demand for Authenticity

Bitter

Illustrations-Diego-Fernandez-11I’m tired of looking at something I can’t have. I constantly block my senses from working—my eyes from seeing, the thought from coming, and the feelings(!)—almost hating them for functioning properly. But the itch on my heart just keeps growing, gently and then suddenly.

I’m tired of living in the back of my mind instead of walking with reality. My body is hungry and it’s craving for something definite, something real. But the world I made for myself is bewitching.

I’m tired of wanting prohibited dreams. People. And things. But my ears stubbornly listen to my articulate brain talking its way through things by teaming up with my very desires.

We’re tired of liking something we can’t have. But we do it anyway. Because the thought of it is thrilling, our eyes spark for it’s fireworks that we see, and the feelings(!), unlike any that we know of. We’re tired, but we keep on thinking anyway. For it deceives our minds and makes us happy for a moment; happy because of an imagination and even though happiness is a myth. We’re tired but we keep on wanting, on yearning the prohibited. Because no matter how much we try to fool ourselves that everything will be better if we follow the right track, the impalpable forces will pull us back to show us what we truly love.

[Photo]

Not Sweet Sixteen

Poetry

explore-independent-woman-light-sky

A flat tire in my throat
Salt river down my cheeks
The clown’s red puffy nose
And a blue handkerchief

My heart screaming “Stop!!”
But the body keeps going on
The mind finally speaks up
All things happen for a reason

So I waited for the year to pass
Hoping I’d find myself along
But I found other people instead
And they made me wanna move on

Turns out, I was never really gone
And everything was just an illusion
The emotions from the first stanza
It’s just me craving for attention

Daily Post’s Only Sixteen.

Feel The Tension

Poetry

oh-gosh-scrabble-tumblr

Carter placed the first word
on the board. Summer, it read,
with E touching the star.

I smiled at the thought
of the word I could make
out of the letters on my rack.

Using the blank tile as M,
I connected Memories
to his Summer, our summer.

Zoe has a smug look on
her face as she linked
Love at Summer’s E.

I caught Carter’s eyes
at that brief moment
and we just understood.

Ryan seem to have noticed,
he was smirking during his turn,
attaching Illusion to Love.

Now I’m confused.
Are we playing words
or speaking feelings?

Daily Post’s writing prompt The Perfect Game. [Photo]