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Writing

Writing

Adieu, mon amour, adieu

Change
How strange (too easy)
Has left me all in tears

Drops
Not props (too salty)
Drenching this production

Then a sigh
Goodbye (too quickly)
Convinced you

And you finally let me go
So why the waves of sadness?
Why a disappointment?

The change (so strange)
In me, and us
Forever

Writing

Not like the movies

I want love like the movies, simple and sweet
I want grand gestures, promises, surprises and gifts
I want a hero, a charmer, nice and complete
So I want love like the movies, I thought you would be it
But see, love in the movies last only so long
Two hours, that’s all, and life still goes on

Writing

Newton’s cradle

Back and forth we go, like a steel magnetic ball
A click – we meet – and then one leaves
And alone, alone again.
A click – hello – and then goodbye
As always, alone again.

Writing

Oh blank page, have mercy on me

The judgmental glare of the bleached screen, the mocking tip-tapping of the keyboard.

Then, a silent compliance, as the legs of discourse moves towards complete deletion.

Words, stomped out, as if they were never meant to be.

Writing

Wounded

There are some things that can change your life forever. Some news, that once heard, cannot be unheard. It fills you up completely, and it becomes all you think about; nothing else comes through. The worst part? It feels unreal. But that doesn’t make it untrue. It sounds like another story about another person; a common and ordinary circumstance, foreign in your world. Until it isn’t.

It hits you like a silent bullet. A speeding train in the distance but you don’t hear it. You start to think of all the possibilities, all the impossibilities, of everything that will never be the same again; because of that one piece of information.

Waves of sadness, anger, confusion, and a dull sense of dread. It’s hard to breathe. You feel silly and dramatic, so you hide it. You suppress your emotion with new facts and information, you want to be prepared. You are strong and focused, you are okay.

But night falls and you sink. And you don’t even feel it until you are on the ground, broken.

Writing

Night/day

I’m better at night. Because the darkness stretches on and time does not matter then.
The day, however, is bipolar. She is morning and she is afternoon.

Writing

In memory of

There are some songs that bring you back in time. Like how sometimes the smell of some things brings back vivid memories, there are some songs that do the same. An out of body experience that isn’t alien, every sensation flowing through your brain to the tips of your fingers just acutely familiar. And it is eerie as it is lovely that I remember how everything used to be, and I remember what I was fighting for, what I was living for, and what I was dying for.

They were tears now remembered fondly of.
Those were the times I was most alive.

Writing

Lead

Give me something to believe in
I need to know it’s there
My eyes are closed, I’m shaking
I’m so alone, I’m scared

Let me see what’s coming
I need to know my fate
My head’s a mess, I’m trying
But I can’t stand the wait

Light a path for me dear,
I cannot see the way
My heart is dead, I’m tired
So help me one more day.

 

There’s a certain expectation of everyone, a certain path to follow. I grew up following this path exactly, but once in a while, I let myself go off-course for a little bit. Only for a bit. But now I’ve ventured too far, I’m getting lost, and I don’t know what to do.

Writing

Send in the clowns

I’m never too pretty, never too smart
I use my head if I can’t hear my heart
I’ve never regretted, and never looked back
I’m happy where I am, I don’t need to pack.

I use what’s not funny to battle the clowns
They share their own stories, with only a frown
Real painted smiles are best when I’m down
The tears they come easily, disguised as a yawn.

And if I feel awkward and queer to be me
‘Eccentric’, ‘peculiar’, and ‘quirky’
Just glad to be free.

Writing

Essence of the emotionless

My insecurities are why you can never see me cry
You read me like a book but still you don’t know why
For all this I’m sorry for, but I can’t apologise
Because that same damn property is crippling my mind.

(Oppression flows from insecurity; I realise that I do have abundant emotion, but I wish I had the ability to be more endearing, and less indifferent.)