my patience is so cold,
icebergs could break.
my dreams are so big,
sun could shine
in trembles of November rain.

I see black roses
and I drink of
same old poison.

I see those waves of
all the blood I bled
and I see a full blood moon
at dawn.

some days are
as black as night,
some are as colorful
as daytime rainbows.

I am made of
all the people
I've encountered
and all the things
I have experienced.

inside, I hold the laughter
of my friends,
the arguments with my parents,
the chatter of young children
and the warmth of kind strangers.

inside, there are stitchings
from cracked hearts,
bitter words
from heated arguments,
music that gets me through
and emotions I cannot convey.
I am made of all these people
and moments.

here i, walk blind in
unseen sights,
aspired by my will,
to catch the shot in the dark
not dark as in morbid but,
dark as in unknown, unseen
for only, it could be
foreshadowed by some
i will be viewing the past
through the lessons
it has taught while i
keep on..writing,
painting every vivid dream
i have for my brain is
translucent, once i enter
the realm of softness
and dancing moon spirits.

I did not believe,
standing on the bank of a river
which was wide and swift,
that I would cross
that bridge plaited from thin,
fragile reeds fastened with bast.
I walked delicately,
as a butterfly
and heavily
as an elephant,
I walked surely
as a dancer
and wavered like a blind man.
I did not believe that I would cross that bridge,
and now that I am standing
on the other side,
I do not believe I crossed it.

some things are better left unsaid, yes.

but watching people talk and write down about things that’s hurt them, heavily to the point they chose to sleep on them has got to be the most beautiful thing in the world to me. I only write when I feel these emotions, right in the deepest center of the realization. that’s when you know there’s a slightest meaning when you’re all lost and never want to be found again.
I write down when I’m fully aware of myself and my surroundings because I know for a fact that the next day I will feel empty and I could do anything to fill this vacant hole, again.
And I decide to read and read until I detach myself from the everlasting numbness for I can feel again and write down another poem about it.
It could take weeks maybe months but if it has meaning, it is definitely worth all the energy you can give.