let me tell you the story
of the girl who laced cigarettes
with the taste of coffee
the girl who stained tissue napkins with sappy phonetics
and the guy who knew nothing of the sort

she carved heartbreak on the surface of her wrists
and broke silence with unessential questions
she wore her wounds in a tight braid
and carried her worries on the pages of a paper-back book
she described her mind as retired
from all the wars she has won and lost
she exclaims sighs of relief
and stands by the neutrality of her hopeless idealism

on the other side of the universe, however

there exists
the personification of oblivion
he betrays his race with an unrecognized voice
and words misunderstood by his own kind
he returns to his world for temporary release
of what
he is still unsure of
and yet
he is certain of the presence of sadness
he masks his isolation with a facade of self-accompaniment
and satisfies his inner desires with empty seats
he covers up his chapters with bottles of prohibition
and mystifies the tables with ashes of past regret
he sings about tomorrow as if it holds a promise
a promise of better days to come
he has gone from mountain to mountain
in hopes of a brighter view of the sun
but amidst all his travels,
he is yet to be blinded by the brightest of flames

and so,
he appears to be void
of reason
of worth
of a sense of purpose
of plans of the future

and maybe this is where the story ends.

with both their hands shaking from an overdose
with momentary glances of unread excerpts of themselves
with the unspoken truths
and with held-back melodies of lyrics still unknown
with curses of similarities
and vows of their difference
with her,
believing she already knows too much
and with him,
thinking she is yet to know more

or maybe I was wrong.

because maybe,
just maybe,

this is where the story begins.

Years spent trying to convince myself that I've turned over a new leaf.
Hours used to make my head believe that nothing is wrong.
Days wasted in the mirror, covering up the pain.

I was dumb. I was naive.

I carved every heartbreak, every ounce of pain and fear on my wrists.
Put a mask on and pushed the insecurity behind bars.

When I'm gone,
Will anyone be there,
Will anyone care,
Would they even feel close,
To how I'm feeling right now,
There is an unspoken beauty to death,
There is tranquility,
There is peace,
No more worrying,
No  more problems,
Just silence.

Maybe I'm not meant to be

normally spectacular,

overachieving,

the epitome of perfection,

or a bundle of weak bones

held up by mere accomplishments

that add nothing to my worth.

Maybe I'm meant to be,

like you;

Sublime words always ready,

ready to be spilt on paper,

ready to be read by accident

but kept on purpose.

Maybe I'm meant to be,

like you;

A mystery or a person or both,

a mystery status of alive or dead

circulating the air,

everywhere and yet found nowhere,

Maybe I'm meant to be,

like you,

roam the world without

an adieu;

a supernova for everyone to admire

but unreachable.


**A/N:  Thankyou all for reading! What do you think of this one?

having to comment on the *******
who find faults like there
is a reward for it
while smoking a doobie
drinking a corona
watching a sun set
on a beach
in heaven
forget them