Nostalgia is a joke,
I saw it burn and watched the smoke.
My past is a cancer spreading inside me,
Denial might earn some type of serenity.

I chip away at pencils and pluck through guitar strings,
I can hope my future brings me further from these things.
Faith feels empty,  
"Do not be afraid." is unfathomable to me.

The past always feels like yesterday,
My brain is a broken clock on a time delay.
My amygdala is still a child,
Stuck in the days that can't be reconciled.

Someday someone will hear your plea
That under the facade of silence, there were silent screams

Someday someone will witness what happens in the dark space between blinks,
and in the void between your labored breaths

Someday someone will figure out
The puzzle you've made of yourself...
Will fill in the gaps left by your missing pieces
and will make you feel like you were never incomplete

Someday someone will see your strength
How you struggled, how you strived
How you fell and stood up
How you managed to survive

Someday someone will see you in a perfect light
More than the way you wanted to be seen
Someday someone will find the real you
and I hope that certain someone will be you.

Tonight,

I looked at the stars like I do every night,

and I cried.

because this time,

I remembered

that some of them are dead.

and I realised

just how envious I was,

that I was not as beautiful as a star,

even though,

I too,

was still there.

yet also

so

very

dead.

I sometimes wield the pen in spite
Of why I am convinced I write
The poetic words that I spill

Spill like a glass of water
That’s been stirred to overflow
By my feelings and thoughts or so
I have gotten to know
The will of the flow
The direction that it wants to go
That’s what po-
etry is all about, no?

Because poem starts
with a P for personal
Not popular
Or populous
Not for the people who prefer prying
Pickpocketing or playful plying
In the placid plains inside
It’s for the persons who pray
To the poet’s plight

To go out on an odyssey,
with an O, the second letter
Not omniscient
Or omnipotent
For oscillating with your own
Is only for ones once overthrown
By an onslaught of hydrogen per-oxide
Those ostracized and odd
Off, yet open to the outside

E is the third letter
And it stands for emotional
Or extorted
until emptiness
Extended
after the excavation had ended
and emotion was evacuated ere
The embodiment of ecstasy
Had been enterred here

Lastly M stands for me!
Me, myself and I!
Not the masses who maim
My mind and meticulously aim
For the mark on my midbrain
Just the men and wo-men who make do
With musing about the mechanisms of
Mother Earth and her miracles too

Poetry is a gift
Out with it to be at ease
Especially for yourself
May it help you find peace