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I wandered back to the scene of the crime.

I remember all that transpired from that night.

As I was making my way across, the bridge went up in flames.

And the smoke still lingered even after all the tomorrows came.

I saw the match from your hand.

I smelled the gas before I could land.

I blame myself for not expecting it sooner,

when all of your crimes leave the same signature.



All the houses that burned down carried your name.

History said you were going around claiming you were framed.

Yet the clothes you wore still reeked of the fuel.

The last thing they found were skeletons inside a cubicle.

Did you think I’ll always play your game,
never thought I’d grow tired of the same joke every day?
When I came to bid you an honest farewell, 

you thought it was an invitation to send me straight to hell. 


Perhaps I truly am the one to blame.

You did tell me about the things that drove you insane.

And I recklessly chose the path of extrusion.
Perhaps I deserved this execution. 


I wandered back to the scene of the crime.

Where the ghost of the bridge we burned still haunts its culprits.
I saw fear when we locked eyes.
Did you think I’d be reduced to ashes?
Did you think you were burning a witch?
Darling, you forget I’m a phoenix. 

Fire is what keeps me alive.
In the hour between
Ten and midnight,
I am most myself.
When no one is watching
me and my every move,
when no one tells me
who I should be
Or what I should do.

In that hour
between ten and midnight
I choose to be deep,
I choose to write,
I choose to stop doing
what is expected of me.
I listen to music
that will prevent me from sleeping
I betray my eyes by reading
Or watching moving pictures that make me happy
even for a moment.
In the hope
that I will find myself
dancing in the reels with them
when I finally drift and dream.

In the few hours before midnight,
When everyone is quiet
And no one screams,
I am at peace,
I am free.
That’s why I stay up,
Because in these moments
When the rest of the world
is fast asleep,
I can be
more me than I ever am
in the mornings.
Maybe, instead of walls,
I should build a museum around my heart.
Maybe they’d rather respect the velvet rope
that separates them and the artwork.
Maybe if it was inside a museum,
it would be left alone
by those who don’t see its worth.
If people actually saw how precious it was,
they’d choose to stare at it in awe,
than dare to reach for it,
knowing that careless moves
lead to expensive consequences.
Maybe if it was inside a museum,
only those who truly wanted to,
only those with the soul to seek for something more
would line up to see it up close.

Because it’s true.
My heart is nothing short of a masterpiece.
Like a sculpture fashioned to look like silk
when it is built in stone.
Like a mosaic made with pieces of itself,
rearranged to create an image of hope
each time it gets broken.
My heart keeps record of histories
of pain and despair
of love and strength.
I cannot let it hang on the walls of some ignorant billionaire,
can’t let it be taken for granted again.
So, I will build a museum around my heart.
And unless you do not realize what it is worth,
please don’t touch the artwork.
How many almosts and goodbyes
are there in a lifetime?
Life is too short they always say, so live it to the fullest.
But each silent farewell kills me a little inside.
You don’t know how many times I’ve died in this lifetime.

How many laughs will escape my lips,
how many I love you’s shall I say
in my one lifetime?
Because every time I do, I remember to breathe
and from death of a thousand cuts, I begin to heal.
I remember the first time you tasted champagne.
As the golden nectar effervesces down your throat, you whispered my name.
I raised an eyebrow and wondered why,
you said, “You’re everything this glass contains.”

They tell me the tale of Dom Pérignon
who said, “I am tasting the stars” after a sip of his own creation.
You’ve always loved me like I tasted of stars,
and I loved you like you put the stars where they belonged.

We made the mixture of magnificence,
until we were twisted too much on the shelves.
Pop, bubble, hiss--- all shaken up
everything we bottled up spilled down until nothing else is left.
I was champagne until I became your problem.

And somewhere in between the lines, we got lost in translation
I didn’t know where to find you, didn’t know how else to meet you halfway,
but there was pain whichever path I take.
I was already walking the track for the exiled, I didn’t realize right away.

Others hide a ring in the glass,
But we put the problem in the champagne, babe.

Soon it will taste differently to you,
All sweet and sparkling—no strings attached like it used to.
But the stars are no longer where they used to be.
Every sip will wash down any trace of me,
until you forget.
But it will forever linger on my lips;
and I’ll always remember it all too well.
One of the most unique compliments I received from my ex-boyfriend was he compared me to a glass of champagne. I was thinking about this when I had my eureka moment for this poem. I continuously listened to Taylor Swift's song Champagne Problems while writing this which further inspired the direction of the poem. I was champagne until I became his problem.
This is going to be the worst poem you’ll ever read.
Because it is written with frustration,
Made during a time when a writer is at loss of words.
This poem is an effect of writer’s block.
No rhymes, no style, no meter.
Just a collection of verses put together
By my mind aching to bleed on paper,
But couldn’t, these thoughts are too scattered…
Too many…
All trying to get out the door at once,
And so the words that are meant to describe them
Can’t go through.
I read my previous poems and I lament
Over the fact that I can’t write the same way again.
This is the worse poem you’ll ever read,
This is the worst poem I ever wrote,
Made entirely from the worst torture for any writer.
Let us pretend you were the sailor and I was the sea.
Let’s pretend I have the heart of the ocean inside my chest,
And in my mind, the world’s deepest, most treacherous trench.
Let us pretend your ship has sailed
Through my fingers to my heart,
You dropped your anchor at my centre,
Stayed with me and danced with me for days that never seemed to end.
You built a mark in me and created a home while you anchor stayed at rest.

Yet, imagine how it seemed when thunder and lightning struck.
And the waves that brought me to keep you away came up.
Let us pretend your ship nearly fell apart from the horror that I really was.
And you desperately tried to pull your anchor back up…
Away from the tragic travesty you just now understood.
We’ll keep pretending if only we could.
Though all of these were metaphors with no end,
The pain of how you tore your anchor from my heart
Was no pretend.
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