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How many times do I
have to remind myself:
"You have to let it go
so that your heart doesn't break
and your soul doesn't ache.
If it was right it would stay"

But all I urge to do is
grab your collar
and shout at my loudest volume:
"Can you give up on breathing
and still hope to live? "
Whenever my heart sinks
and my mind halts,
I eye my darkest secrets,
threaten them of the blinding light.
It's the past I'm trying to bury
along with the things untold.
But then, there's a part of me
that wants to carry my past
with pride and own my scars.
Wear your scars like a crown and walk straight with pride.
Like an incomprehensible piece of art
hanging on the wall,
I have kept my feelings hidden
in the form of words pressed
onto the paper
crammed somewhere in my heart.
For some people, it lacks
rhythm and for some beauty.
But for now, I know
and fully understand,
people are not poetry.
Because poetry grants me freedom
to improvise when it is not in line
but people, they do not.
He tiptoes through the dark forest
in the smell of damp earth
combined with old fallen leaves
in this bitter summer eve.
Dull cloudless sky hovers over him
along with the bare limbs
of tall trees while he hears
cooing of birds returning to their nests.
He makes his way slowly,
but his heartbeat is on the run,
rises, falls as if imitating the sun.
A battle of words is taking place inside him,
but he does not dare to whisper.
Stars slip out of existence
and moon is about to set.
Comfort disappears, regrets pose a threat.
Last thread of light casts shadows
on the ground where he treads barefooted.
Waves of nervousness wash over him
whereas folks lumber in peace-
a complete detachment from the scene!
Reaching the far end, he bents
holding his knees, sweating all over
as if his one last hope ends.
to be free of all his burdens.
His eyes catch a glimpse of drowning dawn
making him wonder if the universe
abandoned it too between
transition of day and night
just as he is left out unseen
somewhere between dreams and memories.
He is left out unseen
somewhere between dreams and memories.
Among the sounds of
roaring traffic-
when buses moan
and screech to a halt,
birds tweeting and
the wind tickling the leaves,
music, laughter and distant chatter,
how do you make it possible?
How do you find the audacity
of clouding my mind
with the noise
that your memories make?
questioning what can never be truly answered...
My life like soft grey clouds
floats in front of me.
I see pictures
of past cliches-
flashbacks of heartbreaks,
And some of love and warmth.
I grab from these pictures
a few abandoned dreams,
before they disappear
in the thin air.
I choose merrily,
I choose merrily what's mine.
When you look up
to the darkness alone,
when you feel wind
tickle your bones
and when it whips frost
into your eyelashes,
when the wintry sun
makes ground glitter
with its nascent rays,
when you look at with love
each sculpted flake,
when a smile spreads
on your cold lips,
may you remember me.
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