What shall I write about now.
Now that I refuse to write about you.
Now that I don't want to write about you.
I do still want to write about you.
I still have things I could be writing about.
But if I continue...
I know it would stop me,
from moving on.
And that's all I want to do.
Is to move on.
So I have to stop.
I have to make this my last.
You're all I want in my life.
But I can't have you and I know that.
So I have to stop stressing and let go.
So I have one question,
One thing that I keep pondering...
What shall I write about now?!
Now that I refuse to write about you.
I mean I don't even know,
What I would write about anymore...
Besides that there's not that much,
At least anymore.
Now that you ignore me.
I just can't stop pondering...
What shall I write about now?
if you're writing the words
you're doing it wrong
you have to let the words write you
i want people to remember my writing
not my skin
not my blood
not my bones
i want people to remember who i was when i wrote.
but i fear the nights,
they are cold,
my wrists need tending.
i want to disappear into the snow
like a small animal
i want to be smoked like a cigarette,
My "poetry" sucks
But I can not stop writing
I am such a twat.
Today, I can stop writing.
Yes, she took me back. Yes, I am all hers again. And she's all mine. :)
This letter will be a renewal of my promises. That I will commit the rest of my lifetime to prove to her that I have changed; that I have become a better person for myself, for her and for us. That we will not go through the same pain we did because of my previous mistakes; that she will never get hurt for the same reasons all over again... Better yet, I promise that I would do everything so that she will never get hurt. I may not be able to promise that we will never face any hardships, trials or challenges, but I can promise that we will face them together... and that we will hurdle and triumph through them hand in hand and come out stronger. I promise that we will always be transparent to each other, airing out our feelings, emotions, fears, joys and everything else in between... For we want every detail of our stories to be shared to one another. I promise to always be by her side; sometimes we may not be physically together but in my own ways, and in the best ways I can think of, she will never feel alone. I promise to be my very best for her, to always be inspired in everything I do because of her. I promise that both of us will be able to do what we want or we love, without judgments or restrictions... For I will respect and accept every detail and part of her. Yes, we may talk over things and compromise, but changes done in our lives will never be a sacrifice but rather a choice - that I choose to do or not to do something because she is more important and that she is valued more than my wants. I promise that we will both explore our greatest potentials, and that I will be her best ever supporter - that whatever career path or life decisions she may have, I am with her 100%. I promise to keep our imagined black, white and red themed house clean and orderly (once we finally afford and invest on one) because I know she wants it that way. I promise to always be beside her when she needs me, or be out of her sight if she needs her alone time or space... For real love is not just about the number of hours or days being physically beside each other, but rather, about every second that our heart beats in sync for each other wherever we may be.
And my list could go on and on... And maybe I won't be stopping writing for her. Because everyday, words spill out of my heart out of awe and happiness that yes, she has taken me back.
And I am never messing up this time.
Thank you, Anne. You will always be loved. :)
Yours, for the rest of your lifetime,
I think it cute, you writing of a love you haven't touched.
Silent crackle, tingle,
The smell of a sticky must. Floating dust in
An abandoned attic, where the rats roam and the dead skeleton of a fish
Still lies in an empty bowl of moldy rocks and plastic plants.
Yet, despite the emptiness, a girl curls up in the corner, black
Running down her face as she weeps for the things she longs for most.
She looks out the dirty, broken window at the cloudy sky and imagines it
Blue. The brightest of skies with only few hints of cirrus.
A blanket on the ground and the man she loves, nothing else in sight.
The expanse of green in her head is contrasted to the rotting floorboards she lays
On, dreaming. The steady beat of Boy in Static thrumming through her headset
As she struggles not to scream and jump, finishing the job on the window
From troubled teens years before. The sound reminds her of VHS tapes,
Press rewind, take a turn and start over. But she can't, when something has changed.
The boy she knew, looking down with his hood not up, but covering his face, shielding
Himself from her. She knew he had a screw in his head, but she just looked away. He never answered anything she asked. He was unable.
But her heart still dropped, she smiled her best. An amazing actress, fooling everyone, makeup allergy keeping her eyes dry. She just read Huck Finn as though nothing was wrong.
Now she sits in her room, writing and shaking her head. This line is not right.
Her walls were full of color and poetry, but her mind kept wandering to that attic.
She was there again. Blankly staring at her star charm anklet. A simple blue ribbon.
And the throbbing of her heartbeat through that one spot on her thumb,
That pressure point that hurts more than anything. But one thing could be worse.
Being left. Just like the broken rocking horse in the corner and the baby's cradle
Lined with blue silk that was shoved into a box. That baby is probably dead. Just like all
Of the others who lived there, burned by the fire. Goose flesh raises, prickly
Hairs on her legs from a week of no shaving. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Bleed.
Change the song. Bleed Like Me. Perfect. She draws on the peeling walls, two hundred
Years of wallpaper and lead paint, chalk barely leaving a mark. She sketches a masterpiece.
A child that she wishes she could have. Impossibly too young, but still...
A daughter she could raise better than her mother raised her. A chance to do something right.
More than the mechanic life she has lead, empty and useless.
Confused and pathetic. Like the broken grandfather clock that ticks backwards.
Three, two, one.
Ding-dong, dong-ding. Grandfather never taught me anything. He was not a wise man.
He was a fool. Knew too much and too little, no room to know what was right.
She let another raindrop escape and suddenly it began to pour. Lightning crashes as a glass
Slipper collides with the picture drawn of her dream. Thunder as she releases a
Bloodcurdling scream. "Why!?"
Why her? The pain in her back is unbearable. She slouches too much, and her eyes burn.
She is not Cinderella; her ball gown does not glitter.
Piano is her least favorite instrument, but it somehow gets to her. Small hammers
Striking her heart strings, low notes reminding her of his voice and the soft, feminine
Voices radiating, remind her of when she was young... Immortal. She has aged since then.
Too quickly. Her entire life has been a masquerade ball. Unskilled idiots dancing
Around her and stepping on her toes. Shouldering her in the stomach,
Breaking her ribs. Beats of music guide her skilled toes, swerve around falling raindrops that
Her own eyes emit. And she crashes through the floor of that dismal attic. Broken free,
But she is still trapped. The walls are charred down here.
But the walls are not painted black. They were once a mint color, green and cheerful, healthy.
Until a psychopath lit a match.
"I didn't mean to do it." It was all in her head. The house.
She set it aflame.
She sits in her room, writing and shaking her head. This line is not right.
Her walls were full of color and poetry. It isn't worth it to stare. Nothing will change.
She is still just a girl in a glass box, being stared at and judged. Trapped and ridiculed because her eyes bleed and bless the onlookers with bad luck. It's amazing the things
That people don't know. Drifting deeper into a pit of endless darkness. A candle won't
Live down here. No oxygen to let it breathe. But one lit self portrait hangs in the air.
Years ago, drawn in pencil. Symbolic, it wants to be erased. To die.
And the girl on the page is wearing a mask. The girl in the parchment is me.
Medium length hair and a tear painted, permanent. A Parasite. Capitalized for its meaning.
A demon is running through me, singeing
My tissues, blisters on the insides of my bones. Swelled up, show through
My skin. Waves on a shore. But I am not a beach. A bitch maybe...
Still, I hate it. The hate killed whatever flowers I had left planted in my mind.
Tainted me with the horrible visions of a tear streaked face of paper mâché.
She was the one in the attic. Her whole persona
Wilted and ashen, grey. A silent movie might mask it; the hurt, I mean.
The grey lines on the screen hiding the bags under her eyes and the redness of her nose,
Get rid of the twinkling shards of glass frozen on her cheek from crying in the dead of winter.
Slip up once, and everything goes to hell. Well, I must have slipped years before I was born.
Few smiles are left on this dismal timeline. And I shall use them wisely. But, for now,
I think I will just weep, sleep forever and hope that you don't give up on me and pull the plug.
I am still here somewhere, just dormant. Please wake me up. Get me out of this charred cabin,
This glass box. Pull me out of my warped sense of everything, teach me again what
Love feels like. I have forgotten amidst everything that I have felt and remembered.
There is no more room for things to be learned. Only for things to be repaired.
I will give you a hammer. Come inside and fix me; that screw in your head couldn't have taken your knowledge away. You are the only one that knows.
Give a jolt of static and bring your bride to life.
When I think of all that I have done,
it being good and bad,
I feel I can say one thing most people cannot,
That I am happy with all the choices I have made.
Being young is tough,
growing up is harder,
but knowing how to do both is rewarding.
Wisdom is a yearning of mine,
something I will always try to achieve.
It is through others that I will learn,
for I look up to others and view them at face value and what is beneath.
I will experience what they have,
and learn to do or not to do it again;
that is the way of life.
I'm not very good at writing in rhythm,
but I think this will do for now.
The passion for writing heats the coal
igniting with every inspiration
luminous flames within the soul
will melt together a beautiful creation
Pieced of moments that you can't escape
extinguished love that made you fall
burned memories closed off with tape
a poem is the victim of it all
As embers smolder, waiting to ignite
by troubles in life that will inspire
a beautiful poem to rise in the night
set by arsonists, a poets fire.
Writing Sad Poems
Someone asked me why I only write sad poems,
I never noticed that was a reoccurring theme.
I've had my share of ups and downs,
But the lows seem to linger,
Replaying scenes of tragedy,
Until my thoughts consume me.
With so many questions filling my head,
I feel like I'm drowning in emotions.
Some people have their therapists,
But I have my leather bound book,
Filled with my thoughts and feelings.
Because sometimes it's easier to write a poem,
Than admit that you feel alone.