But who cares if the words you write
can't be properly articulated by others?

Your thoughts weren't meant to be recycled
and simplified through someone's criticism
Your work can't be measured that simply
if at all
because its worth is limitless
it will remain immortal
for if you die, your words will not wither away like you

They'll grow out of you like flowers
and the ink from your pen has its unique flow
circles and straight lines
scribbles and doodles
whatever path your thoughts lead you to
it's the right one

With light strokes of my pen,
I will draw us racing towards an unknown
side by side
not knowing when or how to intersect.

Stripes across the page exist over a name
I've held so close to my heart
but abstained from using on my lips
where silence reigns.

Between lines, poetry lay burning
ashes of stories I stayed awake at night recounting
a rejected part of my humanity
that I cannot forget
that I will never forget.

October has left me with blood on my hands,
and wilted flowers in my hair
but I am a wound trying to heal
the stripes on my skin mark growth
life will emerge in the face of cold winter air
life will radiate like northern lights
gleaming like the energy of all souls combined
against a wall of star encrusted darkness.

I was a child
who found beauty
in the symphony of words.

Restless,
I tried to join sentences
and stack beautiful vocabulary
in my empty glittered journal
but nothing worked.

Years have passed
and I remember the exact moment
when I realised that what I loved
was called Poetry.

I marvelled at the writing of others
thinking of myself
as a streak of faint ink
on a masterpiece of paint.

To me, I was incapable of being an artist
and painting sheets with my emotions
but in the end,
we all have a fire within our hearts
that we want to put out
and we write endlessly
to tell others its story.

I remember you
when I bow down to God
and I ask him to bring you back
every time.
I do not forget.

Exchanging glances
I could hear him clearly despite his silence
Swallowing my pride,
I spoke first.

Raising our eyes to the sky
we discussed the weather and our plans
pretending like the words, "I miss you" didn't exist.

A great year has passed
challenging us on each side of the globe
far away from the other
but sometimes,
I am sure that our thoughts unite.

In our dreams, and in reality
we will continue to
exchange loud glances
without saying the proper words.

It is 3 am
I am hoping that when I sleep
my dreams
will consist of you
and that I'll be present
in yours too.

You burden her with troubles
that you cannot handle by yourself
then wonder why she breaks and snaps
like twigs in busy forests
that can't seem to stay whole.

Don't define poetry.
I will not allow myself to be placed
within your confines
and narrow mind
for my own has no limits.

I am its queen
cultivating a kingdom of intellectual beauty
planting seeds of wisdom and knowledge
picturing gardens of thoughts and poems.

Don't define poetry.
Useless ramblings to you
May seem like noise
That you'd rather shut out
But my voice matters
And it shall manifest itself
In ways you can't imagine.

How can I reply
when my tongue has blisters
from the words left stuck and unsaid?
I can't hurt you
because I know what pain feels like.

The thing about poetry,
is that it's important to be observant
not only of the words written
but of the strength of the emotions
that cascade behind the curtain of letters that you read.

When sadness reigns
over our hearts,
it makes us weak
but in reality
wounds only strengthen our skin
we can now see the contrast
between what we had and what we lost
what we want and what we don't
and the most beautiful poetry is created.

Why is it that such sombreness inside
can create a beacon of light in our words?

I can't draw or sing
so I hope everyday that
the curves of the words I write,
the rhythm of the syllables I speak,
will be enough for you
to fall in love with me.

Empty room
with loud thoughts
drying like paint
on its silent walls.