Boy, don't tell me a lie.
Don't make me a promise you cannot keep.
I would rather live in the shadows,
then to be given light and to have the light taken away from me.
Don't write a poem for me.
I am not a girl who speaks and thinks about metaphors and the universe and love.

You talk about the seasons and you talk about our beginnings,
yet you cannot remember the trips you made to walk me home.
Now, would you believe me if i said i can tell you what month, day or hour it was?

So help me.
Don't talk to me because I have realised it was your words which hurt me most.
Don't promise me because I am always left with the shreds of your lies.
Don't write any more of your poems because I will keep them in my drawer but save it secretly in my heart.

Instead, cover my eyes and blind me.
Don't draw out this pain.
I have enough of your lies.
If you are going to try to give me a final promise,
Then the least you can do now
is to promise me
you will hurt me soon and break my heart swiftly.

that's when your thoughts **** you. it's raining, and the white noise is wrapped up around your soul, leaving you cold even without touching the raindrops. you stare at blank space without even blinking once. and when you do, a clap of thunder echoes in the distance, and the raining gets harder. it's as if your horrible thoughts are directly proportional to the strong downpour of the metaphorical tears you've been keeping in for so long. that's when you pull the trigger -- when all you hear is the rain and the words you almost said, but never did, making you feel like you have a fish bone stuck in your throat. the raining gets harder and harder, but you think twice about it because you can't tell the difference between the sound of your heart breaking and the sound of angry rain collapsing on your roof.

and then it all stops. it all stops, but your hope is dwindling. it stops, but you don't see things the same way ever again. you're alive, but you feel more dead than ever. that's when you know your thoughts have killed you.

You used to matter so much to me.
I will breathe you in and refuse to let you out.
I keep our memories so tightly in my grasp,
nothing escapes from the past.
I will beat the love through out veins,
even when our hearts told us to give up.
I made sure that nothing could ever go wrong.
But when it did,
I could not change a thing.

Don't you see?
The things that matter so much to me in the past
no longer matters anymore.
The people who were my entire world-
Suddenly, I do not orbit around them like a lonesome dawrf planet.
When you wrench our relationship apart,
I had let everything go.
I had let everything that was in my grip,
fell out of my hands.
I saw them fall into a deeper part of my brain and although it seems like I still harbour them,
It's irrevocably gone now.

Nothing matters anymore.
I live in the shadows and the sun no longer shines on me.
But that is okay, because nothing matters.

Lie to me.
Tell me that I am everything I never was.
Tell me that I am beautiful and watch me tremble and shake.
Look into my eyes and lie to my face, will you?

Why did I build my home on such
an unsteady foundation
of lies and insecurity?
Time and time again,
I swallow my grief
just to blink back tears and brush the truth away.
Stay where you are and do not come near.
Don't cause a land slide that will surely destroy me.
I will be crushed under the weight of so many lies
weakly supported by kind intentions.

Hide the truth for me if you love me truly.
Cover my eyes and whisper into my ears: you are beautiful.
Protect me with your lies.

I write this poem for my little sister
who still cries whenever an elderly
reminds her of her late grandmother
She cannot stop the tears long after the memories have assaulted her mind
It leaves her gasping for air and courage.

she knows that her loved ones
love her unconditionally
and she knows she love them back in the same way
even if they were in another realm that she would not enter,
not for a long time.

I write this poem for my baby brother
who has not seen reality for what it really is.
He still believes in the good in every person
and he does not understand the news
that tells him of deaths, murders and acts of terror

His friend's race or religion
or even their ****** orientation
don't matter to him as long as they are
funny, nice and friendly.
At the end of every arduous day,
it is the innocent spark in his eyes
that remind me that i was once naive about this world too.

I write this poem in the hopes that when they grow up
to be an angsty teenager or a bubbly youth
their hearts would stay pure and open
and not cracked like all of us.
I hope no girls will break my brother's unguarded heart
I hope my sister would still walk this earth, seeing with rose-tinted glasses.

I write this poem for these children
who were just like us,
before we became yet another cynical adult.

some days are so quiet
and the days go by peacefully without a word
these days are the best
believe me
i dont know whether i killed the voice in my mind
or the voice that is my own.
or is it the same?

some days are so quiet
you can hear the squeak of the mouse
that lives on the crumbs i drop on the floor,
when i am too bad to leave the bed,
or even this room that is my sanctuary.

some days are so quiet
i hear nothing
i dont hear any laughter.
maybe you think this is sad
but these days are my best.

You walked past me without any flicker of recognition, and just like that, we were strangers again.