It came and it went.
It did not appear as a dream.
It did appear even as a mere thought.

My pen arouse from its slumber.
It roared as it reached the pages,
Not due to any approaching prey,
Not due to fear.
You see,
these words never took much effort.
In fact,
I could sit and dwell and the words would come as if God himself was whispering in my ear.
Perhaps,
Perhaps, I’ve drowned myself in pages.
Pages and pages of another’s work.
Once I’ve reached their last pages,
I cannot form a concept of what is true reality.
I feel lost.
I yearn so badly to be her.
To be in that love.
To be in that fight.
Perhaps I yearned so badly it was involuntary that the pen was awoken.
I awoke the pen.
And I will write once more.
She is back.
And I will write this **** book.

For an odd reason,
we place our pencils at rest.
We tuck them to bed,
and the darkness aids their slumber.
It is not to blame.

We,
now the blossoming future,
bring upon life but yet,
have nothing to show.
Our journal,
it yearns for the ink of our great minds.
A secret,
A tale.
A new beginning.
But yet,
we have nothing.
We are nothing.
And thus,
our pages remain blank,
and our lamp lacks oil.

It seems quite funny how,
though the world is spinning
round
and
around
everything appears quite still with you.
The ever sweet feelings of consistency.

The outside,
can never compare to
the sweetest of insides.
The skin as soft,
and gentle at even the firmest grip.
Fragile,
but never fearsome.
The inside,
oh how can one depict.
A core,
of pure blissfulness.
A heart,
which yearns to bring out a smile.
A sunrise which
yearns to bloom and bring warmth.

And after?
What is one left with?
The pit of to be disposed?
No,
rather a memory.
One is often said,
to be "true to their roots."
And for just as this peach,
its core is a symbol of home.
A yearn for a future.
The seed brings you home.
Home to those who love you.

I shall forever bloom with you.

"Don't drink your calories—
unless you want to get drunk."

Her eyes trembled with tears

Weakness stretches out,
not searching strength—
for another soul to be
weak with

A heavy languor spilled into the room
all she can think about
is the patterned ceiling,
which was a book for her to read
while entwined in damp blue sheets

I cannot hate you.
I cannot create a sense of anger and discomfort,
Because our chapters do not align.

I cannot hate you.
Footsteps pull one forward,
Unless to choose to have them constrain you backwards.

I cannot hate you.
For love is defined as one who has a full heart.
One who cannot be without,
A sense of comfort and yearn.

I cannot hate you.
A prayer to God may not heal the future.
For though I cannot hate you,
I can make a move to love myself,
And continue my chapter..
Without your silhouette on the cover.

Him and I are unalike,
that is why we fit together.
You and I are for one another,
that is why we are meant forever.

Life takes turns,
as a windy path.
Perhaps leading somewhere
in which you cannot see the end.

Life leaves questions unanswered.
Why do we live and die?
Or perhaps something more simple as,
why do red and blue mix and produce purple?

For once,
I do not yearn to have the question answered.
I sit and ponder.
Late nights can drown me and leave me even
more wide eyed.

The future.
The future is as a blind driver.

The future.
We have the ability to become an artist.
We paint the canvas now,
for a step towards tomorrow.

As I said,
I do not wish the question to be answered.
For,
something has altered.

Have you ever had one moment that changed all?
It makes your head quite less dizzy,
as if you could see your future through a crystal ball.

Euphoria is often an end goal.
We see ourselves somewhere.
We see ourselves with someone.

He/she makes the future less a blur,
and more a world of color.

Maybe,
we cannot paint this someone.
But,
we can search.

It is a question,
in which I refuse to have answered.
Because for once,
I am letting it be.