I find the glass to be half empty,
He finds the glass half filled,
It's the same thing,
Except it is not literally,

Each one of us forgets, conveniently
That the glass can be refilled
Just as easily as it can be drained empty

And it's up to us
But we are too busy clanking the empty glasses together
Till they shatter,
Or, try to drown ourselves,
When they overflow.


I take a step in,
He repeats,
We both try to co exist in a way,
That neither of us are actually leaning,
Both trying to be friends,
With strangers' acceptance of how one is
I like to chatter, he wears a cloak of silence,
Except there's not much difference between either.

And it's up to us,
But we are too busy screaming to override the unwelcome words,
Or try to dance our imagination on the tune of silence,
Away from the cruel intentions, camouflaged with soft words
Except there's not much difference between either,
We both are shaped by our hurt, and undone by happiness.

I find the life to be a continuation of misery,
Add in some whining and self deprecating poems
Different faces, worn by the same ghosts
Different paths, same dead ends
Pursuit of ever evasive happiness,
Life is never changing.
You think every thing changes,
It's just me who is always going to look the same
To you at least

And it's up to us,
Whether we remain the same or not,
To grow up and grow apart,
Or to Shrink in and fade away
Except I look around,
And I know for you, it's always me
And you look back
And know I'm the one who has always been there

I find the glass half empty,
You find it half filled,
It's the same thing
Except it's not literally.

Like you,
But with no filters around your mouth
Not stopping midway when you reach out for me.
Like you but before my demons got to you.

Like me,
But with my heart not swelling and crashing,
My lungs not elating with hope and deflating with reality
Like me, but before i fell in love with you.

Like you,
But with strong hands that feel like fluttering of butterflies against my skin when they touch me
Your footsteps sometimes syncing with my heart beats,
Like you but when I could read your eyes the way I read poetry, never getting enough of either

Like me,
But me talking to you, rather than bringing up your name as the room quietens and my friends look anywhere but in my eyes
Like me but when I had you, instead of these metaphors, and hyperbole, smilies and allegories, arranged in the shape of you so I could still have some souvenir of you.
Like me but with our names that you scratched on my back not faded.

Like you,
But not thinking that you have had me figured out now, so you could casually go down your library and put me on a shelf
Like you
But not finding me to be a waste of breath.
Like you but when you thought my light was worth the long period of eclipses it comes with

Like me,
But going on walks with you to the beach
Instead of me going on and on trying to kiss the horizon or the bottom of the sea,
It depends on the mood actually.
Like me but happy.

Like us,
But when we knew exactly who it was that we wanted us to be,
Instead of clinging to whatever vague ideas our mind comes up,
Doing anything to distract us from the aching hollow heart we carved ourselves out of

You look like a reason to try to want to wake up
A reason to try again
You look like the shameless shade autumn wears,
Not apologising for all the goodbyes it brings.

You look like a reason to want to die a little less,
A reason to play dressing up in front of the mirror
You look like this rebellious pen of mine,
Taking a break from the blues and writing about  the red in your cheeks
Clichés be ******, it yells.

You look like a liberation death could bring, but only sweeter,
The light filtering through the curtains, but softer
You look like the face of a stranger I confessed my miseries to long ago and wished never to see his face again when I was done
Except I could never run away from you, pls don't make me ever wanna

You look like the adrenaline rushed first kiss,
But with more finesse
You look like all the warning signs I have ever ignored when I ran past them,
Except this time I want to stay and discover why.

You look like all the poems I have ever sat on fire, except you fire never burns you into Ashes, it somehow compliments and coexists w your halo
You look a lot like humming bird, except you're humming in my heart, fuzzily flowing into my veins

I buried myself in my own body so don't ask me why the words on my lips taste like tombstones or why I wake up in the middle of the night startled as if I can listen to the rattled ache of old bones colliding against one other inside my self because the muscles have decayed off long ago.

2. I have swallowed enough tears and choked on enough words to create a sea inside of me so don't ask me why I walk sometimes as any moment I might collapse under my own weight if you don't know how it feels like to have your organs soak water and later drown in it. Don't tell me pressure gets to you too sometimes if you don't know how it feels to have your insides fight your own skeleton and skin to get out.

3. I sleep a lot or not at all. My sleeping pattern is a perfect symbolism of how I feel things. Either I'm overwhelmed or numbed except no one ever notices cause my lights are always on. My friend once joked that I'm too old to be afraid of monsters. God bless her sweet, innocent heart. She did not need to know that I carry the monster with myself to my bed, that sometimes the monster walks around her wearing my face but guess that's okay. To them I'm a happy girl who likes to write sad poems. As if sadness is a persona I'm trying to adopt cause it's a trend. But ignorance is Bliss. I'm counting on them to always deny that things are worse than they look when the signs are glaring them in the eyes. Their ignorance is not just their Bliss, but my liberty.

4. One of my friend while reading about someone's suicide asks me why would you want to trade all that's out there for an oblivion. I looked her in the eye and told her that it's cause they notice no difference except for the extra pressure that life brings, the constant reminder that you should be out there just doing something.. You know, living the life and all and knowing that you're supposed to want to feel something but you don't, don't want to at all, is tiring. Existing is tiring. Or so they think. It's not like I'd know, I add lamely to differentiate myself from them.

5. I'm always sad but I have never let that prevent me from being happy. It's really sad, and it's really funny that I have never been truly happy and never been truly sad. A hopeful present always brings me a smile, or death. Depends really. And the regretful present is enough to sober me at my happiest moments.

6. Sometimes my days feel like a continued extension of night, my life a silent movie but with the sad bg music where I'm the only character that does not know its role or which scene is going on. Sometimes it feels like I have long exhaled my last breath and my mind has not just caught up to the fact that I might be dead

***** hands, mine
Always *****
Scrap and scratch,
Always nagging
Layer by layer,
Digging out the dirt
Layers gone, but dirt remains.

***** hands, mine
Ever so intrusive,
Clenched fist, jaws clamped shut,
Still they find a crack,
And in they barge, authoritatively,
To my heart
With blood, the dirt gets pumped out, everywhere,
Drop by drop, the blood falls,
While the dirt sits there, a vicious smirk,
"you can't get me till you have drained your life out "

***** hands mine,
A seductress, in her ripe age,
Traps, their hold growing stronger,
With each show of your resistance
Oh ***** hands of mine,
You play your cards so well
But let me go wash my hands
Before we begin again.

-Written by someone with a constant compulsive desire to wash her hands, and that too at most bizarre moments

"sometimes, the poem has more friends than the poet."

And I kind of find it beautiful and I kind of find it sad
But at least the poet has his pen.
When all else has left
He can look across all these version of himself
Scattered on the floor,
Across all these pages.
Maybe that's why he writes,
To give tribute to all parts of himself,
All the damage he has endured,
Or maybe he just writes to feel less lonely,
Or he writes because he just has to,
Like one has to breathe.

Whatever the reason may be,
I'm kind of glad,
That when all else has left,
An artist still has his art,
And it may not be much,
But it's at least not nothing at all,
Maybe his works are a result of all his pain,
A consolation price for losing more than he has gained.

A pen might might not always be mightier than a sword,
But sometimes it's all you need to get through.