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I don’t want to see you anymore
For I should have always hated you
But I didn’t, because I just met you
In a hallway, I didn’t necessarily like…
But more of all because in the phrase sugar and spice
You seemed like the sugar but turned out to be the only reason I cried

It’s been a while now and I just want to ask you what have I done?
It’s about everyday that I hear new things about me.
I just want to let you know that all my life I’ve perceived from the sight of some other
Only your vision is one I have not come across to see.
In this tiny life of mine never have I crossed paths with someone who has a perspective like this towards anybody

I don’t blame you,
For I am the one at fault.

Not because you were a nice person
Neither because I probably did something
But I am here because I believed in you.
I believed that anything I do, you. Would not turn
But, I was wrong.

That is why every day next to the wall that is covered with dents and the paint that this world calls blood I wonder
What is worse than caring for someone who never cared for you back
My response Is caring for someone who never knew.
Days pass, years too
And as these hours go by you are no longer the person you once knew
You are dead, dissipating in this thin, cold air. Deceased.

So, to the other side of my soul,
Please, stop.
Quit acting like the sugar in my life because, in the end, I have to suffer, not you.
Quit being the vision that see-through but just cannot hold afar and sight.
Quit being me because if this goes on then I don’t want to see you anymore.
To the other side of my body
Why don’t you love me, can you not see me cry?

I am breaking down next to you why can’t you stop me?
Do you really think I like to break us like this, never.
So to the side of me are you ready for leaving, have you packed your bag full of memories?
Because if I could hate you then I would
But, you are weaved into my spirit and these needles don’t work.
Don’t lurk behind someone who you hate.
Do what you have always done leave me in the dirt
For one of us needs to go.
I have never actually liked myself for as long as I can remember, this is a message to my worst enemy.
I’ve been looking at this word for so long
That not a single candidate in this plethora we call a dictionary
Seems true, to me
My mother used to wonder why I could not be like everybody
For my left-hand side of my left hand could be found drenched with blue

Unlike herself, my father and somebody in the neighbourhood she knew
Much to her pleasure
The 3 notebooks she had bought for school are now carved in the memorial of the empty ink cartilage that I hold in my hand today.
My hands trembling as I trash them away
Condensing with the remembrance of the fingerprints that I let go of too

These papers lie one over the other,
Colour bleeding through.
There were days where I could decide the path of this blood. Shape it into words too.
But, with these dense pages and empty tunnels is there much I can do?
There were moments where I formed phrases about life,
But when my tool itself fights for its existence, how can I derive the essence of pride?

Lately, my pen has been a little unwell, unsettled with the way it's used.
The last time I had written something from my hand with its diffused liquid,
It seemed confused as if it had forgotten its use.
But could you blame my pen for it has been reduced in size from the amount of circles I’ve proposed in between these several unfinished proses.

Just yesterday I had left my pen to sob, on its own.
Had I known that it was the last time I could meet it, I would’ve read its goodbye poem to it.
I have realised that my pen didn’t ever need my guidance.
I had travelled miles along with it, seen skyscrapers and seas yet it remained the biggest thing I had seen.

My pen was wise, but wouldn’t I say that now? That it’s gone, that it may never return to me.
For my quill wishes that it could be a bird next so that it is free.
Because isn’t it odd how everything we love, is the most abused?
I had asked my pen to stand and dance while I sat and adored.
I walked on roses
The ones she picked through thorns.
This poem is a message to all the pens that we use, relentlessly to express ourselves, expressing for once their value in our creative worlds.

— The End —