at fifteen, words hovered wherever i went.
at seventeen, the words appeared only in the darkest places.
at eighteen, it had fizzled out and appeared in a storm.
at twenty, it is all just out of reach.
but that is up to me.
to all the writers i met before,
to the strangers behind the screen,
you nurtured what i had to offer to the world.
at that age, you made my 'hopefully' the reality.
what i hid from everyone, you witnessed.
today, i would grab every word i can until
eventually, they make sense.
fingers around in knots
show you the shape of my mind
and my hands, for holding and gripping
instead only frantic
for no purpose can be presently met
there is no do, but just tapping
fun fact: i am no longer 17. i am 20. it seems like the last time i ever wrote meaningfully was 3 years ago. i come back to it now to revive it as a hobby
if i am again reduced to a bad memory,
i might assume that role.
when i am history and i am the writer's enemy,
i might leave those letters frozen cold.
because if that is what i am in your mind,
that might be all i'll ever be.
what do you care if i metamorphosize?
why do i care what you think of me?
i am just a bad memory
and the only pieces of me you hold
are nothing but my history.
there is nothing i can do to change that.
no part of it i can erase.
but if i am someone's bad memory,
why should that stop me from becoming
another's beloved at this present moment?
The wall is my punching bag
and your face is my inspiration.
Even when my knuckles sag,
there is no hesitation.
I have bruises on my fingers
but it is not the wall's fault.
It is the surge of my anger's
and they make my fists stronger.
The poison you poured in me
is overflowing the bottle.
Every punch the wall meets
is every sip of my struggle.
The pain is sinking in
and it feels worse than the bruises.
It's buried deeper within
so I dig but it refuses.
The wall is nothing
to what festers inside.
My punches do nothing
and there is nowhere to hide.
The disease is within me
and it is thriving in my mind.
The only way out is nowhere in sight.
I looked to my fists to set myself free
but my fists have no eyes
so I cannot see.
Now, my arms deserve to rest.
I'll even bid them a good night
because today won't be the worst
and I'll need them another time.
i feel your arms around me
my head is on your shoulder
you whisper that you love me
it made me feel warmer
i feel safe with you near
and even when you're far
i know you'll always be here
even when i dont know where you are
i open my eyes and see
im holding cold, white cloth
it's not you holding me.
i sob into my pillow.
I'm not what you want to see
but I won't try to change for you.
What you see is only me
and I am who I want to be.
I won't shed the colors of my skin
for these are my only hues.
We are the same but you are not my twin
and I'm the sole owner of my sins.
The market of lives which doesn't exist
so I can't trade with those I wish
but living this life with no regrets
is the greatest battle I can never resist.
is it my fault you stopped shining
when i took you in my hands?
why you stopped burning so bright
and undeserving of your glance?