Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Ekstyn Jun 2016
When I was a young girl, someone told me that love shouldn’t be a burden to anyone. But it made me curious whenever I see my mother’s tears, and my father’s frown. It was one of the things that made me question some commonplace knowledge, because love was such a foreign word to me even when I was nothing but a small child. I needed to see something before I can believe it.

Then came the (word) happiness, it was vague and so easily misunderstood. Another foreign word to add to my growing list of words I’ve yet to understand. I was told that I am happy whenever I laugh, whenever I smile. But why is there an emptiness right after every laughter, and there were so many distorted smiling faces. It made me question a lot of things, and it made me wary of smiling people.

Now, sadness, I am quite familiar with. It was unexplainable, but it was something that came natural to my own person. It was like meeting an old friend and cuddling in an empty room. It was cold, but somewhat warm as well. It was something I could deal with because it was the only thing I understand.

I saw anger as something I’d rather not feel, it was destructive and it introduced me to fear. It was the words that were flung to me whenever I made a mistake; it was something I often see from my father’s eyes. Back then, the only companion I had was the constant fear of being not good enough. But every now and then, I embrace sadness and fear as I look back at my own reflection. It was strangely comforting, because unlike happiness, it won’t leave me disappointed.

Growing up, I realized that somedays are not meant to be lived. Some are just meant to pass by, it was enough to survive. Then I began counting days like I’ve counted the time, taken for granted because it was inconsequential. It was hard to know if the days passed me by, or if I passed them myself. It wasn’t hard to see that I was just probably trying to live; I didn’t have the time to have a life.

Resentment greeted me like an old friend, like some phantom pain from an old wound. There wasn’t even a scar to prove the point, just a faint memory with strong feelings. It was the day I learned that despite what parents tell you, they do play favorites.

Contentment often rhymed with happiness, I learned. While it wasn’t a jolly feeling, it was something concrete enough for me. It was enough to make me believe that I too, am capable of happiness. Given, it wasn’t some boisterous laughter and sunny smile, but I take what I can. This world isn’t really as generous as I thought it would be, not even for a lost child.

The thing with sadness is that it grew up with me, some way or another, it became melancholy. Or I became melancholic. Either way, it wasn’t just a simple snap feeling of being sad. It was something that I learned to live with, sometimes it’s a handicap, but mostly, it keeps me grounded.

*The problem with these words is that they are often relative. *No two persons have the same definition, but there is a general idea behind them that people tend to agree with. And it doesn’t help that people don’t often mean what they say, or that we are fumbling with words to say what we mean. *Isn’t it ironic, thousands and thousands of words and we’re often misunderstood.
Ekstyn Jun 2016
What if my heart was a mistake?
What if this wasn't the heart for me?

What if this was meant for another person,
and I got it by some sort of accident?
What if my heart is out there with the wrong person?
And my other half has found it,
loved it, but got broken in the end
because it was my heart on someone else's?
What if I was never meant to have the heart to begin with?
Because my mind is a dark place where a feeble heart cannot survive.


What if this beating heart in my chest is breaking
slowly, painfully, dying on its own...
Because it was never mine to begin with?

What if I broke it completely?
Of what if I let someone else break it?
Will it hurt as much, even if it's not mine?

I want to know because I can't feel anymore -
All the wounds left ugly scars,
the horrid bruising brought by my own
filthy hands...
*What if it's dead inside and I am slowly
being poisoned, crippled
Until I'm completely numb?
Ekstyn Apr 2016
Hate is a strong word,
not because of its degree of intensity...
but because it stemmed from
a very delicate - powerfully so -
word...
Hate is a child of LOVE.
Along with sadness, sorrow and longing...

After all,
You cannot hate someone
unless you've cared enough,
unless you've loved enough.
Ekstyn Mar 2016
is the taste of your name on my lips (whenever I try to recall the sweet thoughts I had, before the bitter aftertaste of what we were).
Ekstyn Feb 2016
Perhaps it was easy to fall back
into what it was,
what we were...
An almost-friendship
acquaintance,
rather than what we could be-
like an almost-lover friendship...
no, that'll be a harder fall.
Because we never really had
any memories to forget, never had,
never will.

I am seeing 'this' for what it really is,
A fragile bubble too easy to pop
with single pin *****-
and the larger it gets,
the thinner it becomes-
as it goes untouched,
it will just vanish
into nothingness without any
trace of its prior existence.

And that's what it is, was...
a something sort of nothing.
It was one sided all along, and I had to break my own reverie to wake up from a beautiful nightmare. Because you can't, you won't.
Ekstyn Feb 2016
It landed on my feet
like an unsuspecting
leaf, tossed around by the wind
until it's here
the first piece of a puzzle
I didn't know  I was solving,
and it was a very
inconsequential piece,
so random that
I didn't have any idea
what I am looking at.
...and it was the random piece
that started the  go-fish
sort of a game...
until it was no longer just a game...
Because piece after piece,
I was beginning
to see a vivid picture of a person,
and it was  an ugly repercussion
that I liked the little pieces I picked up...
Perhaps the more
bitter truth of it  was that
I didn't know what to make of
of the imagery before me...

Whether to believe
the little pieces,
or to see for myself what
kind of a person
the whole picture is.
Ekstyn Feb 2016
The way it started
Was nothing
Short of
A boring
Prologue
Of a ******
Novel…

But it was
The in-betweens
That makes
The story
Count,
The stolen glances,
Shy smiles
And voiceless
Affections…

The things that
Often go
Unwritten
But perhaps the
Most vivid
Memories
We keep…

The silent whispers
Of hope and unrequited
Love…
The hidden lines
Between what
Has been written
Down.

It is the in-betweens
That made
Me want to
Tell our
Story,
Not the lackluster
Beginnings-
Definitely not
The ending-
It has its own charms,
But I’d rather
Not relive
The feelings
I’ve killed and
Buried deeper
Than six feet.

But as it is,
We won’t have the
In-betweens
Without a
Beginning…

So let me,
Let me tell
How it started-
From how I remember
Them, how I saw
Things from my own eyes.
And I’ll let you
Tell yours
Afterwards..
Should you ever
Want to
Reminisce what
Has been-
I’ll just leave this here
For you.
*first page of across the room*
Next page