i was a rose
with delicate crimson petals,
and pin sharp thorns
radiating extreme passion
and deeply rooted pain
to those who stumbled upon my presence
i was a rose
a physical representation
beauty, promise, lastings
despair, torment, endings
but i still yearned for love
to be watered, allowing growth
but i was drenched with tears full of angst and fragments
of those who have hurt you before
i was a rose
you didn't have much of a green thumb
and that was okay

I am sewing a dress
with the thread of strength,
And knots of ambitions,
And when it’s ready,
Then will iron it
with the remission,
I am sewing my broken soul!

By: Nida Mahmoed.

There is no forgetting you
But there is letting you go

it's so late i've lost track of the time
and by this point, i don't care.
i don't care what time i'm supposed to be awake, and i don't care that i won't get sleep anyways.

some days i wonder where we went wrong, where we took the wrong turn, and then i remember i never was any good at reading maps, and you don't follow directions well.

I look at you
I see the sea
calm waves of you
gently caressing me

I see the ocean
in your eyes
I'm drowning
they're pulling me in

deeper

and deeper

I don't look away
that was my mistake

the ocean was beautiful
it was a magical sight
but I couldn't breathe
and I couldn't swim
but you seemed nice
it looked right

you looked right

and suddenly
there was no more air
I was sinking
my lungs ablaze
every drop of you consuming me
hurting me
I closed my eyes
I couldn't see how nice it was
you felt wrong

the ocean killed me that night
but if I would've knew
I might
have never looked into those eyes

so beautiful

but wrong

I wrote letters
for myself
five years from now
telling him
that it's okay
to cry
once in a while
that tears
are not a sign
of weakness
but an emotion
taking shape
freeing itself
from the binds of body.

I comfort him
with lies
telling him
that if he waits
eventually
everything will
turn out
fine,
that the fire
won't burn as much
if left untouched

I tell him
that broken guitars
can sing too.
Out of tune
maybe
but the melody
is there
howling
on the moon
and the shadows
are its audience.

I convince him
to tuck himself on bed
every night
and sleep
to count the sheep
and drift away
without the help
of tears.

I tell him
that I hope
five years from now
that he reads
these letters,
that i pray
it won't be left
unread
collecting dust
in the corner
of an empty room
deprived of joy
and life.

i wrote a lot of great poetry when i was in love
i wrote even better poetry when i was in pain
i wrote the best poetry when i realized that the two emotions were actually the same.