tragedies - Hello Poetry

Day after day, we go through the motions Like waves searching for shore in the middle of the ocean, Following along as we get swept by the current Again and again, waiting for the day it’ll end. I was lost in this sea of people when I saw him. A mere glimpse from my periphery, I almost missed His tear-streaked face and his bleeding knee, And I thought to myself, how did I not see? My eyes caught the way his shoulders sagged From carrying the weight of the world on his back. He’s only a child but his fate seemed worse than Atlas, His young body shackled by greedy insatiable hands. I wonder if someone witnessed his despair, Picked up a brush and decided to share The story of a boy whose future was stolen By heroes who were nothing but villains. His pleas echo in every brushstroke And while my hands can never replicate The vivid imagery offered by paint He can live on in the words I create.

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Jan 30, 2022

Jan 30, 2022 at 1:21 AM UTC

The Boy in the Painting

Day after day, we go through the motions Like waves searching for shore in the middle of the ocean, Following along as we get swept by the current Again and again, waiting for the day it’ll end. I was lost in this sea of people when I saw him. A mere glimpse from my periphery, I almost missed His tear-streaked face and his bleeding knee, And I thought to myself, how did I not see? My eyes caught the way his shoulders sagged From carrying the weight of the world on his back. He’s only a child but his fate seemed worse than Atlas, His young body shackled by greedy insatiable hands. I wonder if someone witnessed his despair, Picked up a brush and decided to share The story of a boy whose future was stolen By heroes who were nothing but villains. His pleas echo in every brushstroke And while my hands can never replicate The vivid imagery offered by paint He can live on in the words I create.

20

i wonder if you still remember the time when i wrote you a poem in the middle of a noisy lunch hour crowd a small table on the second floor of the local mcdonald's. i used to smile when i thought about it, the days when i felt alone in a room of forty. when i sat with people who i thought were friends but were just as plastic as the lunch tables we ate on. back then, i clung to that memory until my hands bruised and my wrists bled. the scraps of poetry already slipped my mind but not the pair of headphones we shared nor the secrets we kept. every now and then, i think about it, a wave of soul-crushing emptiness washes over me. i wonder how you are and how you feel, but just like us, the fleeting thought fades away into oblivion. we lost touch over the years, but i wish i didn't lose you.

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Feb 17, 2021

Feb 17, 2021 at 8:36 AM UTC

loss

i wonder if you still remember the time when i wrote you a poem in the middle of a noisy lunch hour crowd a small table on the second floor of the local mcdonald's. i used to smile when i thought about it, the days when i felt alone in a room of forty. when i sat with people who i thought were friends but were just as plastic as the lunch tables we ate on. back then, i clung to that memory until my hands bruised and my wrists bled. the scraps of poetry already slipped my mind but not the pair of headphones we shared nor the secrets we kept. every now and then, i think about it, a wave of soul-crushing emptiness washes over me. i wonder how you are and how you feel, but just like us, the fleeting thought fades away into oblivion. we lost touch over the years, but i wish i didn't lose you.

22

there is something magical, witnessing the universe at night. the stars tell you secrets hidden in plain sight. that here, in the sky, lies the answers we seek: there are far greater things in this universe than what we claim to be.

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Oct 12, 2020

Oct 12, 2020 at 9:10 PM UTC

sea of stars

there is something magical, witnessing the universe at night. the stars tell you secrets hidden in plain sight. that here, in the sky, lies the answers we seek: there are far greater things in this universe than what we claim to be.

8

The walls were caving in, and he couldn’t breathe, The fog was too thick, and the monsters out free, He couldn’t go back, not when people don’t believe The things he’s been through, and the things he’s seen. He was shackled by the weight of what he couldn’t understand, His bones straining at the sorrow he held upon his hands, And so he wrote the naked truth on the expanse of his flesh, The ink he used, his own bloodshed. But the myth of Atlas was never engraved in scars, Nor were Van Gogh’s masterpieces a product of falling apart. Still, their struggles became the trophies of society, As if antlers of a prized animal displayed in full glory.

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Sep 15, 2020

Sep 15, 2020 at 5:09 AM UTC

;

The walls were caving in, and he couldn’t breathe, The fog was too thick, and the monsters out free, He couldn’t go back, not when people don’t believe The things he’s been through, and the things he’s seen. He was shackled by the weight of what he couldn’t understand, His bones straining at the sorrow he held upon his hands, And so he wrote the naked truth on the expanse of his flesh, The ink he used, his own bloodshed. But the myth of Atlas was never engraved in scars, Nor were Van Gogh’s masterpieces a product of falling apart. Still, their struggles became the trophies of society, As if antlers of a prized animal displayed in full glory.

12

every night, i look up at the sky, hoping, praying, for the stars to align. every night, they look back at me, their dying light, a shrouded mystery.

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Mar 10, 2019

Mar 10, 2019 at 4:01 AM UTC

evanescence

every night, i look up at the sky, hoping, praying, for the stars to align. every night, they look back at me, their dying light, a shrouded mystery.

4

already, the sand was slipping from my hands. and i realize, all we were was an empty hourglass.

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Aug 17, 2018

Aug 17, 2018 at 8:39 PM UTC

time

already, the sand was slipping from my hands. and i realize, all we were was an empty hourglass.

4

the skin i wear does not feel the same, yet your touch still lingers, still stays. i want to claw my skin out until it bleeds. maybe then, you would finally leave.

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Jul 12, 2018

Jul 12, 2018 at 6:24 PM UTC

snakeskin

the skin i wear does not feel the same, yet your touch still lingers, still stays. i want to claw my skin out until it bleeds. maybe then, you would finally leave.

4

you pushed me off the cliff, and i swore from then on, i'd be your greatest what if.

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Oct 31, 2017

Oct 31, 2017 at 4:50 PM UTC

promise

you pushed me off the cliff, and i swore from then on, i'd be your greatest what if.

4

the most frustrating thing when it comes to a writer is when everything every word, every letter, isn't enough to give justice to the captivating picture of you in the afternoon: soaked in sweat, grinning foolishly, striking up a conversation about coffee, and how unhealthy it is for me to drink three cups straight, to stay awake, yet the bittersweet taste stains my lips. it spills down my throat, covers my lungs, and drowns them with the addicting aroma of coffee beans and lazy dreams, until i cannot seem to breathe, and the only thing i can ever do is to spill ink for you.

0

Oct 30, 2017

Oct 30, 2017 at 4:32 AM UTC

coffee

the most frustrating thing when it comes to a writer is when everything every word, every letter, isn't enough to give justice to the captivating picture of you in the afternoon: soaked in sweat, grinning foolishly, striking up a conversation about coffee, and how unhealthy it is for me to drink three cups straight, to stay awake, yet the bittersweet taste stains my lips. it spills down my throat, covers my lungs, and drowns them with the addicting aroma of coffee beans and lazy dreams, until i cannot seem to breathe, and the only thing i can ever do is to spill ink for you.

29

Happy anniversary. Can you believe That it’s been a year? I can still feel the first time, Your hands danced on mine, A soft presence, almost shy. I could barely pay attention To the film playing on television Because there, right beside me, A story was already unfolding, One that was far more fascinating Than any other mystery. And it was. Here we are, a year later, The story continues to be The most gruelling mystery Of two people ceasing to be, Of you & I never becoming we, Instead, a strange, foreign word To each other’s vocabulary. I thought we both saw ourselves In this picture perfect future: Lying together on crumpled sheets, Watching Sherlock on repeat, Reading poetry and drinking coffee, A state of being indescribably Happy. We were never meant to be that. Only a manuscript tossed in the trash. We loved too little, and bled too much, Too proud to break the silence. Too scared to end the sentence. So let’s scrap the ending, And go back to the beginning: Happy anniversary.

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Oct 15, 2017

Oct 15, 2017 at 12:18 PM UTC

The Year After

Happy anniversary. Can you believe That it’s been a year? I can still feel the first time, Your hands danced on mine, A soft presence, almost shy. I could barely pay attention To the film playing on television Because there, right beside me, A story was already unfolding, One that was far more fascinating Than any other mystery. And it was. Here we are, a year later, The story continues to be The most gruelling mystery Of two people ceasing to be, Of you & I never becoming we, Instead, a strange, foreign word To each other’s vocabulary. I thought we both saw ourselves In this picture perfect future: Lying together on crumpled sheets, Watching Sherlock on repeat, Reading poetry and drinking coffee, A state of being indescribably Happy. We were never meant to be that. Only a manuscript tossed in the trash. We loved too little, and bled too much, Too proud to break the silence. Too scared to end the sentence. So let’s scrap the ending, And go back to the beginning: Happy anniversary.

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