the color of
happiness;
my favorite for as long as my hands learned of brush strokes and canvases

so vibrant,
comforting

the color of
you;
my favorite for as long as my hands felt the warmth of yours in a struggle I've never been through

so safe,
comforting


My dearest orange,
I'm glad you exist.

Poetry is a mere flowing thought
when I first fell,
but now, loving you?
It's its special type of hell.

We love the same color,
do the same jokes;
we try hard for our passions
until our sanity broke.
We spoke loudly of interests,
listen intently on our friends,
but we're still **** in processing
our emotions at hand.
We're some times there,
we're some times not,
we some times leave each other out
that we basically rot.
We always run away,
we constantly hide
from this reality we promise
to fight alongside.

I know I'm not the best,
and that I'm too harsh on myself;
but your existence
shift me around to fight,
and change,
and survive,
so give me this time,
forgive me this time,
as I prove myself one last time,
not to anyone else in particular
but me, myself, and I.

I like to say this however:

I miss you, every single day
I want to see you, every single day,
and no matter what happens,
whatever the circumstance
as we **** ourselves,
to change ourselves,
just to prove ourselves
in this lifetime,
I will choose you,
and only you,
every single day.

I will see you in the end,
be with you in the end,
but until then,
take care.

How does one ask for help
in a helpless situation?

Drowning,
crying,
struggling to find the words
in a vacuum of doubt

and loneliness.


When nobody's there,
how deep does the ocean go
until I stop drifting away?

How does one ask
without needing to say?

Everyday is an uphill *****
—a vertical some days
—always picking up the slack;
picking up the pace.
Desperate, delusional,
acts of disgrace,
but how do you ask for forgiveness
with a struggling face?

I wish it were easier
living, that is;
I force life to be easier;
surviving, it is.

How do you tell people
you're suffocating,
when the air on the *****
is dissipating?

I won't give up on kindness because you exist,
and it is your kindness that my heart learned
that I can be kind to myself, too,
and by the consequence of your kindness,
I won't give up on you.

I hope these words reach you once more
as I relearn your kindness
all over again.

If the darkness ever overwhelmed
my wavering resistance,
tell the tale of a knight
who fought the abyss
under the brightest skies.

Can the birds stop flocking for one second
and check for one missing flap?
I wouldn't say I know,
but I'm not sure if it's selfish to ask.
Wisdom dictates
"Oh yeah, you can ask for help,"
but forgot the error that it might not come.

I just want to scream so loud
that even the deaf would hear me
even for just a second,
I want the blind to look at me,
the mute to speak to me,
the crippled to stand up, walk to me and hug me.
Is it too much to ask to acknowledge me
as someone who exists?

Why do I feel like
it's an impossibility
to be given a second
of attention?

Am I really a tree that doesn't make a sound?
I've already fallen, but I'm waiting to see
if someone saw me at least stood up.

I feel like ****,
unimportant,
unworthy,
disposable,
dead.

I refused to die because you can't **** the same soul twice,
but in terms of killing me, I still haven't tried.

I want to implode and scream and tear my heart out;
I want to fly, fall down, break all my bones;
I want to do all of the bad things SO BAD
just to feel anything.

Nobody would witness anyway.
Nobody would check up on me and ask what's happening.
Nobody.

Am I really a nobody?

They said I matter, but do I really?

Matter, or mattered?

Help me...

...but I guess people already gave up reading midway.

No matter how loud I call for help,
they always chose to answer too late.

Here's to new collections of ugly scars.