Poetry

Remembrance

I was reminded of his scent
earlier which made my blood rush
through my veins
and my heart constrict in pain.
That’s the problem,
I remember too much
it hurts.

Writing 101’s task: Play with word count.

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Poetry

Affliction

bikini-cigarrete-girl-grunge

Blank. It’s difficult to think when you don’t know what to think about. The cream colored wall doesn’t turn into valleys or beaches or places I would want to visit. They remain still. Just like my state of being.

Stiff. Lying on the top of my roof was pointless. The stimulating clouds that help me create provocative ideas are dull and quiet, vague and indeterminate. Just like my relationship with the man I love.

Naked. The dark turquoise sea is calling me, crying for her unguarded existence. Little did she know that the human she chose is also out in the open—exposed, defenseless. Just like my heart that was torn apart.

Spare. Standing in the woods is dispiriting; the trees were tortured once more. They didn’t have mercy. Just like you. To me.

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Strange

I’m Brave (Not?)

Not friends, not enemies, just some strangers with some memories.

Every time I cut, color, or change the style of my hair, this particular man comes out of his house right when I’m about to pass the way. That particular man is my friend, or rather, was my friend. Coz now, we’re strangers. And I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing or not. What I’m sure of, however, is that it’s really brave of me to share and publish this now. The first time I talked about someone so obviously (yes, it’s already obvious for me) that he would know it’s him. If only he reads this. Which I hope not.

Speaking of brave, I think it’s fair enough for girls to say that donating 8 inches of our hair for the benefit of children with cancer is a brave (and kind) thing to do. Which I did earlier, which prompt me to write this post. Now my hair falls right exactly at my collar bone. And I have to deal with it.

Like how I have to deal with what’s going on in my life right now, and all the drama hidden behind my eyes. I have to iron it out and at least straighten some of the curls. But there will be days when you just want to leave them be and be free. From all the heat and chemicals surrounding it. I hope the time comes when I have to worry less, if not anymore, and live life the way I want it to be.

Writing 101’s Task: Hook ’em with a quote.

P.S. Sorry I didn’t elaborate on the quote and my story. It just hurts so bad. Of course, I’m kidding. Also, the last paragraph speaks true for both my hair and my life. Maybe it also rings true to you. ☼

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Poetry

If We’re Together

couple cafe sad ifs coffee girl boy

If we were having
coffee right now,
you’d ask me what
this poem is about.

I’d make up a story on
how I saw the shoes
of my dreams taken
away by some lady
who has more cash
in her hands.

You’d tell me that
there are a lot of
shoes in the world
and I would find
something that is
more special.

I’d smile at you
and you’d ask me why.
I’ll then say that
this poem is for us.

You left me for some
girl who had more
curves in her bod.

I looked for a man
who is far more than
special than you are.

If we were having
coffee right now,
I won’t be captivated
by his radiant eyes.

Writing 101’s Task: Over a Cup of Coffee. [Photo]

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Poetry

Secret Love

girl-boy-couple-secret-love

In a parallel universe
where all the wrongs
are right,
I won’t have to dream
of you a thousand
times.

I’ll scream your name
at the top of my
lungs.
I’ll stand beside you
until the casket
drops.

You’ll pull me closer
for a kiss in the
sun.
You’ll sleep with me
until the moon is
gone.

We won’t have to worry
how to win the
fight.
We won’t have to hide
to your lovely
wife.

Writing 101’s Task: One-word Inspiration. [Photo]

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Strange

A Lost Dream

I found a lost dream. The owner of the almost burnt manuscript must have been lonely. He wasn’t able to pursue the only thing that gave him joy and fulfillment. And I am almost doing the same. I’m losing grip, slowly drifting away from my source of contentment, from my passion. And that’s because of the people around me.

I hear the cries of suffering directly from his heart. The pain lingers on the paper. The story was remarkable, but his reply to the editor was something more. He created a vivid longing for his dream that they thought was an illusion. And because of that harsh and degrading criticism, he crashed, hard. He was also stripped off his chances. What kind person would do that! Now I don’t wonder where a few words could take you. And what connection couldn’t give.

almost-burnt-manuscript

Suddenly, this lost dream gave mine a life.

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