Punch holes in my heart,
Rip it off and make me wear it on a sleeve.
Place my name on your shirt,
Where you’d always remember me,
Every time your heart beats.

Tell me three things,
While I turn you into poetry,
That someday when you stopped seeing me,
In every corner of your room,
My name at the end of your crisp white sheets,
You’ll remember me.

... And how you spent weeks holding off the plan on calling your dentist for your next appointment.
Because a ‘hello’ over the phone,
Is already enough to swallow you whole.
Sometimes you wonder how,
Could you ever survive in a huge crowd.
Because on most days; going out seems like a bad dream coming true.
And doing grocery shopping with your sister is not as fun as it used to.

But they told you that it’s temporary.
Someday, you will break free.
From all the strings that you couldn’t recall being attached to your numb body.
But you wonder,
When will someday be?
When today you panicked when the ice cream worker at the usual ice cream parlor asked you,
“What flavor would it be?”
You ended up getting a brain freeze.
And you left without the ice cream.

It’s not just a person who you could avoid.
It’s not a ghost you could call help for.
Not the clothing item that someone gave you for your birthday that you shoved at the back of your closest because it does not seem like something that you’d wear.
It hangs around.
And they say that it wouldn’t last.

I couldn’t remember the last time I looked at myself in the mirror.
It really does felt like forever.
I have been avoiding my own reflection to restrain myself from thinking.
“When will I reach the point of perfection?”

I couldn’t remember the last time I wrote a poem.
But all I know of is that is what frustrates me the most.
Every time I try,
I would constantly rhyme.
Oh goodness have I lost it?
Why can’t I write?

I couldn’t remember gulping my uneasiness down my throat anymore,
They would all let out as a cry.
Or a prickle of tear.
Either it’s clammy hands,
Or fidgeting around with my fingers.
I can’t seem to get myself together.

I won’t get a grip.
Just bring me to my bed.
Where I would wrap myself in a blanket.
And sit still right there with my hollow mind.
Along with the cracks that made me.
Oh how divine shall this evening be.

You pick on me,
Like strings.
Leaving none attached for me to pull myself together,
After the wreck.

I mean,
Do you really expect a mosaic,
To turn out like a sculpted angel?

So throw me all your words,
Use them as a weapon,
After all, I've already cut myself open.
I wouldn't need your bitter soul to tell me how much of the world I've taken.

And in return of your kindness,
I would take all of your pictures,
And shred them into pieces.
Throw them into the fire,
Along with your unrealistic expectations.
And watch it burn,
And burn;
Until the word doesn't linger.

You're not created only to write epistles of sad poetry and use too many metaphors,
Devoting them all to an address that won't write you back.
You're not made to be here to be held back.
Or to wait around for a call of your name from a voice that'll never bother to come around.
But you're made to love and to be loved,
To see things and to be seen.
To capture beauty in every way that is possible.
You were made to be.
And this is your call,
So be it.

I am like a shadow where there’s light,
The silence that you can’t find in the loudest night.
I capture things like a frame,
Of the beautiful things that I see.
I sometimes hope that yours,
Includes me.
But I am like the piece of paper on the notice board,
That no one seems to read.
Maybe not everything is like me.
Not everything wants to be,
Seen.

In a way how hearts combine,
And facts and theories define.
You were made to be here.
So am I.

But love isn't how the universe held everything that is in it,
It's not the force of gravity,
And it's stability,
It's the uncertainty,
The unplanned journey,
Where fear is what's left in your sunken hole smiles,
Love isn't,
And will never become,
How the universe exists to be.

Every corner of my life is clean,
Untouched.
Except for my room and my overflowing thoughts.

It was sent to me like a dream,
Took away from me like how my days turn into nights without me wanting.
Tea strains,
Flower pots.
The smell of mornings begged me to,
Forget-you-not.

It was always the smiling one,
The loud one,
And I am always the unchosen,
The unwanted one.

Blocks of bricks were put together in it's simplest form,
We've all been there.
How we want without truly wanting,
How we leave with the thought of staying,
And how we forget,
With the unwavering thoughts of remembering.

But this is my place.
A place that you shouldn't have been,
A place that should be clean.
From any trace of you,
A place I only want to remember as corners from a room.
Not another place that you've been to.

Though, you keep showing up with the bluebells to the daises,
Showering me with unwanted and non-permanent solace.
I don't need you,
I have once not need you.
I once had places to go back to,
Now it's stained by the presence of your skimming laughter,
The unearthly yet ethereal face of yours,
The one that I no longer seem to know how to;
Remember.

But I go back every time,
Searching for how you look like,
Immersing myself in lies,
That it's just like a dream,
A perfect fantasy.
When it truly is nothing as it seems.

Fidgeting my fingers,
Why do I feel so anxious?
The ground is tilting back and forth.
Back and forth.
Now the sound is too loud.
My palms are red.

Am I just enough?
Just enough for them to blow a hole,
And take a piece to fill in their sorrows.
Breathe.
Oh but the air is too tight.
Too heavy.
And I can’t.
Stop feeling so anxious.
As if my feet is wobbly and my bones are suddenly too heavy.
Wait- is it?
I am going to fall on my feet.
And people will see.
How careless I am in being.
But I wish that I could care less;
And ignore this.
Feeling.

I do not deserve the title,
Mama's precious daughter.
When I am nothing like,
Soft running water.

Mama's precious daughter,
She's witty and clever,
Balancing her life all together,
But I ain't mama's precious daughter,
I am far off being a precious gem,
When all I do is cry and complain,
About the things that I can't gain.

She's brave,
And daring,
Just like mama.
But I am not mama's precious daughter,
I plan my sentences in my head,
But I am always years late.

Mama's precious daughter,
Curves a smile on her face,
Voice like heaven,
But I ain't mama's little darling.
I waste my time on dreaming,
With a face so haunting.

Mama loves she,
Her wonderful,
Darling daughter,
But I am just an exception– the,
Opposite of,
Mama's precious daughter.

Who taught you to love like folded pages?
You hid them away because you do not need self validation.
Why are you still writing apologies in the form of poems?
Indeed, you are too full for their palms to hold.

Why do you keep blaming other things for your unluckiness?
Things bigger and better than what you're becoming to be.
Things have better things to do,
Instead of focusing on your slander,
That isn't as bitter.

Why do you keep doing it even when you don't like it?
Stop putting on a brave face.
Though they say fake it till you make it.
Life will probably end on it's own,
But your hopeless romantic mind is braided with dreams of the unknowns of 'someones' and 'somedays'.

You whine about the creative blockage that prevents you from creating,
Every now and then.
Why can't you just pick up a pen and jot something down to make you feel less even?
Stop eating your feelings alive.
There are food that you can eat.
And water that you can drink,
Instead of romanticising the feeling of drowning.

Your life is a big question mark,
And you are left with very little knowledge to search for an answer,
But by writing down things that you should stop doing instead of working on them,
Wouldn't get you anywhere,
Either.

How long love is,
It could not be measured,
But you asked me;
How long will I love you,
And I, have been searching for the answer ever since.
From the length of my arm,
To my fingers.
Counting every single sin.

Long after,
I wrote down the date where I let my walls down for you to see,
Every little world I had planted inside me.
I love you from here.

I ended it with my answer,
On that very day,
Where your name was the only thing that's familiar;
To here.

You are probably sick of apologies,
Because all I do is sound like a broken record saying,
Sorry.

But how much do you really care?

I am sorry for being too much,
Or not enough.
I am sorry for being skeptical,
About things and people.
People like you.

I am sorry for the times where I shouldn’t been.
For the times where you don’t want to see me,
But there I am; existing.
I am sorry for writing you epistles of poetry,
The ones that you’ll never read.
I am sorry for being guilty of being mad,
When all you did was left me with jumbled words,
Stuck in the bottom of my tummy.

Lastly,
I am sorry for my heart.
For myself–  giving something special.
Only to have it hurt and scarred.
I am sorry for loving,
Until I burst.
And remaining to be kind,
Because I don’t want them hurt.
I don’t want you hurt.
But I am sorry for giving away something you already had too much of.
I didn’t know.

Because I wasn’t full of love.

Exhausted.
And completely drained;
Of songs being played on the radio over,
And over,
How I have to spent my time,
Alone.
Noticing,
Almost everything.

Almost.
And lonely.
Almost there,
I almost let them go,
But I am a sea of hello and goodbyes.
They are the waves that comes back everytime.
Without failing.

Lonely,
If there’s a more accurate word,
To describe being,
Alone.
With emotions,
Which then I’ll turn into words and words,
Of poems.

I am tired,
From this rain,
I want sunshine.
Not to live in;
Vain.

Describing you as things that are meaningful to me.
You are my Rose Colored Boy,
The blue to my gold.
The pink couch I wished I had room to own.

You are— the late nights watching Friends all alone,
The smell of mornings and the cold.
The pouring rain when I'm all warm and cozy at home.

You are,
The piece of writings I am proud of,
The feeling of my favorite gel pen on paper,
Eloquent words I use in my poems.

You are the sunset on my lucky days,
A warm hug— an embrace.
All the feelings of happiness,
And the sound of waves.
You are all the things I adore,
Keeping them safe.

I guess from the times that you taught me things a dad should've;
I started to rely on you.
From changing the bulbs,
To putting a bookshelf together.

I remember seeing you smiling,
Though god knows how you're hurting.
Painting and moulding two different canvases alone,
From a single flower to spring.

You taught me things I didn't knew,
From how to tie my shoe,
To loving with every inch of you.

I guess some people got lucky with two,
But don't you worry, I've always got you.
Happy Father's Day, mother.

Table talks.
Dining table talks.
How they can burn your bridges just by one word,
No.
Or even just by a look,
The glare.
Oh how rude.

It's all in your head, they say.
You can't do that, they say.
Or they just laughed.
What a way,
To make you feel blue at times when you needed cranes to lift your spooned knees from clattering.

Table talks says that I shouldn't write my life away,
No ones going to care or listen or read to things that I pour anyway,
Table talks told me that why do I have to care so much, whenever i learned or read up on why the other side of the world is crushing.

Dreams, my dimly lit dreams,
Table talks turned it into ashes,
Just by one sitting.
You can't do it.
No.
But you wear the hijab.
They list all the boundaries,
When I say; 'I would..

Table talks,
Turn into them eating another,
And the piece of your heart,
To shatter.
Your newly lit dreams,
To burn.
And you,
To sink.

Current emotions are like,
As, Bs, Cs.
It's like preferring tea but you're caffeinated by the idea of reality.

Current emotions are like,
Asking people who kept away from living.
If they are afraid of dying.

Current emotions won't let me explain,
How it feels like to be different.
Or somewhat unusual.
Always being the one to hear but they won't offer to listen.
Being left behind by the people who you loved dearly.

Current emotions is a pain,
A burden.
It drove me insane.
I can't even talk to my friends about the plant I have growing inside me.
The roots are deeper, grasping strongly.
No poison I could take to **** it.

Current emotions are tangly,
Like your earphones every time you place it inside your bag,
It's teary and wavy,
Like the paper soaked in the tears I had held on for so long.
Current emotions are;
Flattened.

Of course,
Surely,
It's going to be her.
All I have is words and cynical thoughts put together.

I am never enough,
There's so little of me for you to even love,
I was moulded into a chaotic mess,
A tangled string I can't unwind,
Of course it's going to be her,
She's all right,
While here I am trying to live a life.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised,
That it's always her after all this time.
Why would someone ******* angelic like you, love a tangled string?
A closed book,
When you have so many stories,
And love to give,
But I will only shut you out because I love you,
But I am scared.

The feeling of dropping your toothpaste into the sink,
Of tearing the beautiful packaging,
Of erasing the same thing over and over,
The feeling of disappointment in no one but yourself.

The feeling of a sock with a small little hole,
Disagreements that are left unfold,
Of running out of ink while the ideas were pouring,
The tears suddenly stopped coming when you're crying.

The feeling of having books and books to turn to,
But none of them contain the answer that you're looking for.
Of a rack filled with red,
There's only one blue sticking out.
Of being a whole,
But you feel less of your soul.

The feeling of dissatisfaction.
An accurate description of me.
Of dissatisfaction and worry.

Look at her being all pretty,
When the lightning strikes,
She shows off her beauty.
A solace to your world,
A smile that heals your scars,
When I am just a Nobody,
Sat beneath the shriveled tree,
Waiting for the sun to for once— capture the things that's left of me.