To the girl who died young,
Who left the world
When she had to play with dolls and bears.
Who went too early
Who was
A best friend
A classmate
A daughter
And a student.
Little birdie, you went too early.
I know you had dreams
To touch the stars in your spaceship,
and
Go to Paris when you turn 21.
I know you wanted to celebrate your 18th birthday with your girl gang.
I also know you wanted to achieve that gold trophy.
But, yet, little birdie, you went too early.
I know mom promised to get you
your favourite dollhouse,
If you get well soon.
I know dad said, he'll take you to Disneyland,
once you get well soon.
And you promised your best friend
That you'll come back to school soon.
But, the words never turned into actions.
Little birdie, you went too early.
If they cry for hours and days,
Would you come back to eat the birthday cake?
Would you come back to hug mommy once again?
Would you come back to watch the movies again?
Would you come back for daddy's gift again?

Dear little birdie,
Why did you leave too early?

And on some days
I just can't write.
I skim through pages
and
scribble my name a thousand times
and
End up realising,
I just can't write.
My diaries and notebooks lie open,
Blank,
White.
I look at my own words
and
End up realising,
I just can't write.
I stumble upon words
And fall insides holes of oxymorons,
And I end up realising,
my name and writing together are also an oxymoron.
I look for inspirations and motivations
But end up realising,
I just can't write.
I personify my emotions,
Add similes to my feelings,
Just like a heart broken by love does.
But I still end up realising,
I just can't write.
I read poems and stories
Of writers who could write,
Feeling, maybe someday even I would be able to.
I battle with metaphors
and
Scratch the onomatopoeias,
I injure the meanings
and
Spill my thoughts through my veins.
I shout " Alohamora " to my heart a million times.
I trace through the lines of the endings of my stories.
I try to go on like the brook forever,
and
I hear the voice of the solitary reaper in the daffodil fields.
Yet, as the day ends,
I end up realising,
I just can't write.

Dear 'those who left',

Thank you, for coming.

Dear Love,

Don't leave.

And the irony is,
Those who ask themselves every day
Which mask to wear,
Are the ones who want me to be real.

I cook my food on the flames of broken hearts and hatred
And
Boil my water on the heat of agony
And
They ask " why does it taste so well? "

They have good days,
I will have good decades.