You bloom in places pain once lived—
soft, stubborn, beautifully brave

You laugh like nothing ever hurt,
then cry like everything did

You trip, you rise,
you call it clumsy—
'I call it love at first sight'

You're not just strong
You're a tulip in a thunderstorm,
Still choosing to bloom
Still choosing to love.


Erennwrites

They taught us to blink the salt in—
that tears are currency for the fragile
and we must never spend
To lead, you must clench your jaw
crack your spine straight like scripture
and let the pain nest in the lungs
where no one sees.

We became statues with glass eyes
shined and bulletproof
Even grief feared our silence.
We held funerals in our throats
prayers sewn shut behind polite smiles
and called it strength—
this ache that made us godlike
this discipline of drowning
without making a sound.

But the body remembers
The body always does
It will drag your sorrow
into the marrow of your bones
weave sorrow into sleep
turn breaths into broken glass
and eyelids into knives.

Somewhere between
“I’m fine” & “I don’t feel anything anymore,”
we vanished—
a thousand storms swallowed
by skin that refused to leak.
No one taught us that tears
weren’t weakness—
they were rain.
They were the only thing
keeping the garden of us
from withering in silence.
But we were too busy being strong
to water ourselves.

We led by example—
held our cries
so others could sleep through the night.
But in doing so,
we buried the child in us
with lullabies made of restraint.
And what a cruel lie it is—
to teach the brave not to bleed,
to crown the silent as heroes,
while their hearts rot quietly
in the dark.

Even the moon
cracks under it's own light
Even steel weeps
when the fire lingers too long

So cry—
Let them cry.
Let the sky split.
Let the flood rise.
It is not weakness
to feel too much—
It is survival
To feel at all.


Erennwrites

I wasn’t born a poet,
but your silence turned into verses
in the pauses between your laughter
I never meant to memorize your face—
yet it lives behind every closed eyelid
tender as the hush before a kiss.

You wore the rain like a sari of stars
and when you looked back that one time
I forgot my name.
Your anklets were verses
my heart dared not write—
too sacred, too soft
too much like something I'd ruin
by touching.

I never knew love
until it sat beside me
on a red bicycle
hair flying
as if time could be outpaced
by innocence.

I never wrote a line before you
But now I write in the rhythm of your leaving
And every rhyme I never learned
now aches in the shape of you.

I wasn't a poet—
not until you looked at me
like I was worth remembering

And now when they ask me
why the moon feels closer
when I speak your name
I only smile and whisper—
"I am not a poet
But oh beautiful one
Ever since I saw you
I have started writing poetry."


Erennwrites

She hiccupped in the middle of a sentence—
like a comma her body forgot to hide.
A tiny sound, a flutter, a skip—
and suddenly, the world tilted on its side.
She covered her mouth,
cheeks painted rose,
as if embarrassed that her heart
was speaking in Morse code.

'"I swear it only happens when I’m nervous,"'
she said, eyes darting like fireflies in June.
But he just smiled—
like it was his favorite song out of tune.
Another hiccup.
Then two.
Then three.
Like kisses falling out accidentally.
She groaned. He laughed. She turned away.
He said, “You hic like a poem trying to stay.”

He offered water, she shook her head.
He whispered, “Maybe you need love instead?”
She rolled her eyes but let it slide,
as hiccups danced and time complied.
And in that pause between her little startles,
he found stars tucked behind her dimples—
how her hiccups made her human, soft,
a little wild, a little lost.

He wanted to bottle that sound,
like a keepsake of her clumsy grace—
the way even her stutters
found rhythm on her face.
They say love speaks in circles—
roses, rain, or setting suns.
But his came in half-held giggles,
in hiccups that never quite let her run.

So the next time she hic, and cursed the air,
he leaned in close, tucked a strand of her hair—
and whispered with a smile too wide to ignore,
“Every hiccup just makes me love you more.”


Erennwrites

Kata orang, jiwa yang ditakdirkan
tak selalu bertemu di musim bunga—
kadang mereka bersua dalam runtuhan
dalam perit luka yang hampir sembuh
di antara senyap dua jiwa yang pernah patah

Kau hadir bukan seperti guruh
tetapi seperti dendang yang lama ku lupa
suaramu—
bahasa yang tulangku sudah mengerti
senyumanmu—
pintu yang pernah ku mimpikan
jauh sebelum aku berani mengetuk

Kita tak berselisih
Kita teringat
Seperti bintang lama yang masih berkedip
seperti hujan yang mengulang jejak di jendela
yang pernah dikenalnya dalam dunia lain

Saat kau genggam tanganku nanti
ia bukan sekadar hangat—
ia kenangan
Dari ribuan malam yang telah kita lalui
di kehidupan yang lebih lembut
di mana kau tak pernah perlu pergi
dan aku tak perlu menunggu

Aku menyayangimu sebelum aku tahu wajahmu
Dan saat aku akhirnya menatapmu
aku menangis—bukan kerana bahagia
tetapi kerana segala hayat
yang pernah ku cari
dan tidak menjumpaimu

Kita adalah sedih di balik lagu lama
alasan rasi bintang enggan pudar
nama yang laut bisikkan
pada bulan yang selalu diam

Dan walau dunia melupakan kita
walau di hayat seterusnya kita hanya bayang
jiwaku tetap membawa lukamu
dan degup nadiku
akan sentiasa satu detik lambat
menunggumu menyusulnya

Kerana saat semesta menulis namamu
ditulis juga namaku di sebelah—
bukan dengan dakwat
tapi dengan kerinduan
Selamanya.


Erennwrites

We never met,
yet something in me moved
each time your name brushed the edge of my thoughts—
like rain recalling the scent of earth
before it even falls.

You felt familiar
in a way no one else ever did.
As if some part of you
was written into me
long before either of us learned the weight of longing.

You felt it too, didn’t you?
In the stillness,
in the way silence held meaning
only we could understand.
Two souls orbiting the same moon,
never touching—always aching.

I dreamt of tulips once—
white, trembling in morning light,
growing between us
in a field we were never allowed to walk.
They never withered.
But we… we had to.

Because life has its own tide,
and sometimes hearts that echo
are not meant to meet on this shore.
Sometimes, we’re meant
only to pass by each other in prayers,
to fold the ache into poetry
and call it peace.

I could have stayed,
but at what cost?
Would you have flourished
in hands not shaped to hold your future?
Would this quiet knowing
have turned into noise
had we begged fate to bend?

So I leave you to the stars,
to the life you were meant to live—
uninterrupted by a love
that bloomed too far away to root.

And if, one day,
you stand in a garden of tulips
and feel warmth bloom inside your chest
for no clear reason—
know this:

If you were meant to be mine,
you would have been.
And if you are meant to be mine still—
you always will be.


Erennwrites

In the hush between midnight and mourning
he stood—barefoot, bruised by silence—
as the cradle creaked like old bones
rocking her tears back into sleep

She was fire and wail
a flicker born of grief and grace
and he—
still learning how to hold
a world that trembles in his hands

Nostalgia came in waves
not of joy, but of what could have been—
the lullabies he never learned to sing
The mother’s voice now ghost in air

He burned inside each night she cried
ash in his throat
but no flame could flame the heat
of a heartbeat pressed against his chest

“Shhh,” he whispered—not to her
but to the ache that built altars
from broken hours
To mirrors that refracts spectrum—
Of what could've been

And when she woke
screaming from dreams she could not speak
he carried her from cradle to sky
from nightmare to the hum of his heartbeat—
a sound she’d once heard underwater

In his arms, she curled like cotton
small fists unknowing
how love often grieves in silence
how men sometimes cry into blankets
so no one hears them unravel

He never told her
that the cradle was not for her—
but for him
to remind himself she is here
still breathing
still burning brighter than the ashes
of what he feared he’d fail to become

So he rocks,
even when she’s long grown.
Even when the room is empty.
Even when the cradle stands still.
Because somewhere between grief and love,
Nostalgia burns the brightest—
when it rocks you back
into what once was home.


Erennwrites