i have seen rivers branching out
in the same way trees flaunt their art by simply being
or veins curving visibly on our wrists
it's not every day that life reminds us of its efforts
to exist in poetry
it's not every day that i realize that falling in love isn't always about him
because nature was there before our encounter
because the way i found my reflection sparkling on the surface of water
is nothing like i could have imagined before
because some days the ocean's waves call me to return to my senses when no one else would
people can be poetry
people can be words
nature, however, has always been medicine
by looking at the sky you know limits can become myths
you see,
i've looked into people's beautiful eyes
but their souls were made of selfishness
while water, fire, air, and earth are divine
it's what we were before we knew that we are
we will return to them
nourishing our home, giving it skin
and breathing the life we own in its core.

my soul is still getting used to sensing hesitation in his words
sometimes i wonder why we can't be together
at first i blamed myself
i always blame myself
but  i've come to a conclusion -
it is in fact my fault
it definitely isn't his
that i am a dreamer living in a reality of nightmares
and that the meanings behind my words are often too dense to comprehend
so his lips and mine can no longer speak common sense
our circles forming awkward edges to avoid overlap
like oil and water and we can never become one

Long weeks end
but more will follow.
Our muscles seep exhaustion
Hollow faces around me
Empty cups of coffee and tea
embody the struggles of the mind
and the stability of the body.
No matter how sweet the morning air is,
or how many birds chirp good luck
the bitterness prevails
it is obvious
in the dense air
and bloodshot eyes.

It's hard to water plants
you believe will die anyway.

we are made up of earth
our skin blends in with nature
disaster and beauty in our soulful eyes
finding love in between shifting plates
a newly found humanity
shaking our bones
but in the end
we drift away
existing oceans apart

I've been struggling to write.
My mind cannot quite decipher
what my heart feels.
Not all cracks in the pavement
have cultivated life along their destruction
so please bear with me
as I gather what is necessary
of words, and of love
to fill in the gaps inside.

Distorted sense of time
Seconds changed to minutes
Minutes to hours then days
The years stacked collections of
Dusty shelves of memories
Ringing telephones, one sided calls, no replies
~silence~
The striking of their shooting nerves
It rattled and shook them
They changed shape
Fluidity in their being
Trying to settle
Trying to calm down.

I was so convinced
that you were the one
that I almost gave up on everyone else.

I'm only seventeen
but it seemed possible
because love can be recognised
by the young and the old heart.

Nevertheless, I was very wrong.

I'm only seventeen
and you were one of my reckless mistakes,
a delusional craving
that will hopefully fade.

Let the orange crack of dawn
smile at the day
and welcome new hours of your life.
Let the radiating sun,
heat up the skies,
warming your insides with new hopes.
Let happiness filter through you,
and seep into the crevices of your broken heart.
Despite the promised darkness of the night,
dawn will come back singing its song
and you will be awaiting it
having already memorised its tune.

Don't shame young girls
who want to express their lives
in metaphors and mellifluous poetry.
They perceive words
as fireflies that shine
on their lonely nights
and it makes them feel alive.
Let them be.

I come in seasons with
a heart of summer
a soul like spring
but find me falling every night
succumbing to the curse that is winter.

I hear the cries emanating from your words
Every letter of every sentence is a story
that only your broken heart can tell.

The longing for peace inside
brings chaos within your cracked bones
I hope that honey starts to drip
out of your scars instead of blood.

The thoughts spinning in your mind
now resemble the whorls in outer space
galaxies of decisions to take
follow the path of stars that lie in your heart.

I know how hard it is to open your eyes
face the world
and live behind your insecurities
let your skin jump from excitement
not from fear that causes constriction of yourself.

You haven't failed yourself
when you chose silence over speech
these pens have screamed louder than anything
one day they will hurt those who wounded you
so that the guilt inside
will keep them awake night after night,
I will continue to pray for you.

Soft heart and lips,
skin like pillows
chest a haven for whoever
is privileged enough
to find comfort in it
don't let the harsh days
blister the frame
that holds you, the artwork, together.

Allow these poems to rebuild you
so that you realize that homes out of people
burn faster than gasoline on fire
and that the paradise you crafted
out of your bathroom floor
corners of busy rooms
tears on scratched paper
and wrinkles on your tired forehead
is the one that will revive you forever.

Stay strong.

Autumn kills the leaves,
slowly and beautifully
but when I fall
it is always in pain.

When the tears,
and my body
collapse to the ground
both in the most melancholic shade of red
my lips promise to never say your name
and my heart attempts to flee its cage
away, very far away
from you.

Your name is buried under my tongue
Its syllables percolate through
My taste buds haven't settled yet
The morphology of the word, its bones
will now turn into brittle dust
Debris will injure me -
I am afraid of the power of words
Because a simple one lay heavily -
Inducing landslides of rubble inside.
One day it will come back
In another form unknown to me
To either bring me back to life:
Fire versus. Fire
Or put me to sleep
caught restlessly in the void
Not finding a way to forget;
Or be forgotten.

Similar to thread and needle through smooth silk
I embroider your name into my poetry.

I sold all the innocence I believed in,
to describe the fire I see in the subject of my words.

With all the blood that races in me
I make it stop;
silencing my heartbeat and tongue
to witness the art that you carry in your figure.

Suddenly the poet in me has forgotten how to write.