I’ve come to learn that I cannot pray
With a full heart that’s devoted, unsuspecting of faith.
And I’ve learned to accept that god might have mercy
But he also has wrath
And that’s what I see mostly.

Wars and death surround us so profoundly and yet we just pray harder
so we can sleep soundly

Uncertainty is deadly
I’m sadly inclined to believe so
At least in this place
Where it’s wrong to show ankle& toe.
Or have weak faith be the reason or your woes
Maybe God’s anger is why you’re not good at this and that
It’s also why you can’t find your ‘perfect’ match
Because your heart is tainted, and your mind too aware so they never fancy you as a ‘catch’
You’re not porcelain doll either, you’re full of scar and scratch
so start praying harder dear (there’s no future with Gyllenhaal or Cumberbatch)
and so you’re expected to bloom before you even hatch
because nothing matters more than finding a match
Or else you’d grow old and be trapped
with lonesome that kills and a reality that slaps.
“that’s what God intended”
Is what I’m forced to believe
so I can pray harder
and never have time to grieve

why would god mind if I *******
Or participate in a heated debate
About his existence (whether it’s real or fake)
And why he causes all this heartache
Because yet again
All I see is death and wrath
and sometimes I drown myself in a bath
To escape all I’ve come to hate
About this place and how people tell me my fate
Because anything different would make the Lord angry
Like raising your voice
Or acting ‘manly’

So When will he shed light
And make a child of war’s smile somewhat bright
Because he abandoned them
Or so it seems
I guess he’s too caught up with my wildest dreams
& the length of my jeans.

you feel until you can’t anymore and you hurt until your arms are sore
Just as you walk out the door thinking of what’s in store your sadness comes back up from the floor and you are helpless.
The sky is blue and grey and pink and people around you always sing , of money and glamour and bubbly things and you are merely a shell. something so out of place you think you mistakenly fell.
Into this world of hate and gloom where money is king and there’s no magic broom, or a high tower for you as a room and it’s all just about the surface.
You paint a face and fake an embrace and love the need to love instead, you love an idea you’ve grown to dread and it’s not so scary to be dead anymore.
It’s not that you want to be alone
But with time you start to turn into stone
And think that your actions can condone
All the blood you shed and hearts you broke,
& all the painful words you spoke
As you watched them cut and start to soak into everyone you’ve ever loved.
This illness made you have them shoved.
So far away that night and day became one to you with time, trying to scribble it out into a poem that rhymes.
It’s far for perfect and it’s never simple as the corner of your eyes start to crinkle into a fake smile for the world to see.
Because you can never turn into what they want you to be.
And you never got out so much of a plea.
For a helping hand or a saving grace because this illness was a disgrace that you should hold until the grave and that’s why people called you brave.
and you were the farthest thing from it.

The ride to and from school would be the way I truly kept track of days, not by sun and light, but by the small construction site inside alleys in a city of fumes and dead dreams.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that I have no great destiny to fulfill, that I might die after a mundane life with a regular job looking for happiness I might never procure.
I’ve come to terms with the way happiness only scratches the surface of my exterior, that I never feel it as deeply as I do my sadness, that cursed sadness that sticks to me like a pest. I can never outrun nor hide from it.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that my life might be a speck, a blurry head in a crowd, a pedestrian crossing a street, an observer.
I might never be meant to create the art I crave to make, or sing to crowds as I want to sing, or write in books for ones to read. I might never be anything at all.
And yet coming to peace with all these things has not made me happier, it hasn’t made me feel deeply and appreciate. In fact, I feel it hardening the fluid creativity I might’ve had inside me, I feel it turning me shallow. I guess my sadness is not something I can live without. I guess it is some sort of a bittersweet companion that I’m chained with for the rest of my days.
I can say that I’m okay with that.
I can say that I can go on normally now.
But I know the life I’ll lead and live would day by day shatter whatever hope I had, whatever aspiration I would want to reach, it would **** me slowly but I guess that this is life and it’s all just tangible, temporary.
I guess I am the smoke I see, from the construction site in alleyways in a city built  on hopelessness, I guess I am the smoke and I will age as the building is being built and I will one day fly away from here. Like the pigeons I see everyday gathering around in a land so dry to eat bread crumbs thrown by sad, helpless humans, all stuck in a trance of pleasing a god in their actions and pleasing people who’d curse you for being different. I hope when I die I turn into one of the white pigeons that only come a handful of times a year, I hope I could come to observe these people but never become one of them.
I hope that one day I would really be free.

It gets hard when I wake up, and the reality I've seemed to create in my head starts to vanish.
It gets hard for me to pull myself out of my bed, when sleep is the only comfort I find in life.
It gets hard to smile, it gets hard to breathe,
when your dreams get crushed and torn at the seams.
It gets hard to write words that explain, the turmoil in my heart, soul, and brain.
It gets hard to simply exist, when you become aware of your surroundings and all the hope you've managed to conjure up seeps outside your being. In helpless whimpers and cries of unfiltered despair.
It gets harder and harder and I'm tired of trying.
If this is my goodbye to you then please understand that I was dying.

The sky is light blue and is pleasant to the eye, hospital lights are harsh and white, almost blinding and intense.
I lived as a silhouette, a shadow of everyone else, shortened at noon and lengthening in mornings, depending on the light, and like it was my self esteem.
I loved in the corners, silently. Looking at people and trying to know who they are from the way their hands moved in a conversation and the tiniest smile they’d have on their face when they talked about their passions.
I loved with all my heart, from the darker corners, so nobody knew.
I was a bulletin board, one where everyone came to hang their accomplishments on, I was the board that made everyone feel amazing and special, ignoring the stab of the pin and the hurt it caused when they put it on me.
I was a bulletin board, one where everyone looked at and felt motivated, one some would use for comparison, one that was always there, never changing, always being poked with new pins from all these wonderful people.
I was a bulletin board up until there came a day where everyone left, no one came poking and showing their pride, no one came to boast about their works. I was left and abandoned.
It was that day that I ripped them all off of me, hearing the tears and the echoes of the falling pins on the floor, feeling the tears that had fell from my eyes when I squeaked and rattled trying to break free from the wall, I was not a bulletin board anymore, I was a person with hopes and dreams.
And yet the pin holes never mended, they all sat gaping, never closing up, n filled.
The day I turned human my insecurities broke me apart, I was left a disfigured body and a deformed spirit.
Oh how I wish I could go back to being a bulletin board.