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Years ago, 3 am is the time where she's in her deep sleep. Everything seems peaceful and quiet, maybe she was dreaming about something good so it made her sleep with a slightly up-curved mouth.

Months ago, 3 am is the time where she tossing and turning in her bed. Maybe she was dreaming about something bad that's why she even frown although in her sleep.

Weeks ago, 3 am she was not in her bed, instead, she was dancing in a crowd, drinking with her so-called friends. Trying to fit in them, so she wouldn't feel lonely or being left out.

Days ago, 3 am she was back in her bed, hands over her mouth so she doesn't cry sound, tears flowing down her cheeks and she asked herself "what's wrong with me" but only the silences in the room replied her

Hours ago, 3 am she was laying on her bed gazing out the window. The desolate look on her face broke my heart. Still, she looks peace and quiet. But I know, her heart and mind are going through the same war over and over again.

Now it's 3 in the night,
she was sitting on her bed, missing the old her.


*I kinda miss the old me
Like Heaven and earth,
like spirit and flesh,
love mingles dark and light;
she mixes fire, blood, water, and air.
For we are made of such.
This is our calling,
our path
and our destiny.
We are born to touch.
Black twine tresses spilling
about her halo crown;
chaotic strands of her
psychic sight
cross, tie and tangle
in a swirl of sapience.
All light within her
reaches Heaven
through windows
of ivory and amber,
shooting luminous beams
into the deep void.
A seed empyreal creates her radiance;
A seed of purity and power...
Hers to keep,
hers to nurture,
hers to sow.
It was a graveyard and overcast sky
and I sat with book and accordian in hand,
hearing the world with its screams
swallow up around me.
The people whom I had loved and lost,
Papa with his silver eyes
Mama her sharp tongue and tough love
Rudy whose hair the colour of lemons
and questioned why, the living and dead,
worlds apart, yet both did not have a choice.
I stood and screamed so that everything shook
the burning rubble and ash and dust
willing my words to bring it all back
but it did not come, and my breath rose in gasps.
Death had looked me in the eye and said,
“It’s not time yet.”
I would shut my eyes to the world
only decades later.
I will understand that there was hate and pain
there was sadness
but even more so, there was love and joy.
I will know that the people I loved had reason
to kiss goodbye
whether it was their own hurt
or saw it as a necessity,
but they were never truly gone from me
always somewhere nearby,
in the thick and thin
frail and worn
of times.
I would learn
to forgive Death that day.
I will understand that
and I will be hurt,
but I will be okay.

~

Not all deaths are sad.
Some, meant to ease their own pain,
Are called freedom.
While some,
Meant to ease the pain of others,
Are called love.


© BT
My first poem on HP.. Thank you all for reading

Edit: Words can't describe how grateful I am to be part of this wonderful community. I'm so blown away by your support, it makes my day! You all are truly awesome, and I cannot thank you enough <3

BT x
You hold echoes of a shift
so plaintively
against the swell
of midnight summer rain—
within the roar of the planes
on cold faded glass
the stuffy air at the airport

There was no way around it
that I could see—
the world still kept its spinning

You lock your stare here
and how I wish
I was packed up too,

snug heartbeats in your leather briefcase.

© BT
She left me with nothing but math.

Bedroom walls miscalculated
to the color of a bruised plum.

Moonwhite sheets tangled
into isolated geometries.

Her pillow, the sum
of broken equations.

Moonlight proves
distance by degrees:

light slanting
in the hallway,

the acute angles
of an open door.
We are watching the clouds
bandage an incarnadine sky,

we are practicing our best knots,
weaving an army of tourniquets,

we are slow-dancing
barefoot on the edge
of a razor.

We are watching
a demolition derby
in the driving rain,

the smell of motor oil
mixing with gasoline,

the hard melancholy
of dying machines.

We are waltzing from room to room,
smearing our names on the floor,

we are keeping time to slow music,
bleeding out behind closed doors.
whatever happens with us, your body will inhabit mine
tender delicate your love making like
the half - curled frown of a fiddled head fern and forests
just wasted by sun your traveled generous thighs
in which my whole face has come and come.

the innocence and wisdom of the place my tounge has found
there, lived in satiate dance of your ******* in my mouth
your touch on me, firm, protective searching me out of your
strong tounge and slender fingers reaching where i had been waiting for years for you in my rosy wet cave. whenever this happens
this is us.
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