As I soak in the cinders of silence
that I myself have procured,
I blame the rest of the world for
the burn marks that never really go away.
I'm submerged to my nostrils, barely
breathing, yet somehow I still manage
to fill the tub with unending self-pity.
My tears do the rest of the work,
and they are the fuel for my embers,
and as I wallow in isolation,
I pretend I am dead.
Mar 3, 2025
Mar 3, 2025 at 3:48 PM UTC
i'm tired of keeping myself from others
it's just so ironic to rationalize
is it for them to be safe from me
or to save myself from them?
this everyday heads-or-tails situation
makes me wish that everywhere i go
is a lawless place where i can just be
or something
or someone
i could find solace from
like a pillow in an empty room where i sleep
but as always
it turns out
this room's too small for people to break down my wall
just as how the rain expects her tears to reach my skin
only to end up on my umbrella
as my desolate eyes stare
to the manhole on the road i walk
wishing to throw myself in it
to consummate its term
thinking at least
i made sense once in my life
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 4:34 PM UTC
always dreamed
of leaving one day
by walking my fingers
left and right and forth
as if the nails were soles
and tips were heels
at the coming of age
always thought
of leaving one day
with nails as tracks
so no one would follow
that not even myself
would want to come back
since between you and me
there is not a thing
worth keeping
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 11:59 AM UTC
Nostalgia is a ***** liar that insists things were better than they seemed.
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 11:48 PM UTC
we cry
and smile
at the same time
so the wrinkles
between our lips and cheeks
catch the tears from our eyes
just as how the only person we got
is ourselves
because after all
you won't notice
parading clouds in heaven
without light from hell
radiating behind it
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 3:58 PM UTC
death is a carousel
spinning; like the uneasiness
i feel as you calibrate
a bracelet towards my narrow wrist
with wooden horses as beads
while our gentle hands hold like nylon
it continues as the gears
like the choices we make
dance to the looped circus music
the acid in our stomach
react as we gallop through tragedy
just then we realize
if one of us steps down
the ride would be fun no more
but darling
it is time
the coin has taken its toll.
Apr 19, 2019
Apr 19, 2019 at 1:14 AM UTC