“It’s not love if you don’t see him as your favorite line in Shakespeare’s poem.” she said.

“But what happens if he’s more than just a line? if he’s the poem I write every night, much less the most beautiful one I have ever written?” I asked.

“I hope you did not let yourself reach that point. For if he’s your poetry, and you are just the poet, you’ll soon have no use when he’s gone. You’ll still be a poet, sure. But the kind who has lost her pen, and worse, lost the power over her words.” she replied.

I asked for your hands
You gave me knives

I asked for the truth
You gave me lies

I asked for laughter
I was given cries

I asked for honesty
I was awakened by infidelity

I asked for hope
I was given ropes

I asked for a little rest
I was given death

It was an enduring love; yours was ephemeral
Not once did I want to put it in a halt
The time I give in, I'd melt all at once
When in dire strait, I'd put the self on trance
For of why do I love
And inflict myself its own pain;
Never did I ask, never did have,
For greater is everything than all that.

Of cold air

and gloomy clouds

Such darkness on it

It let go the rain

Like the girl I see

Sitting next her paper

Ripping the pages 

out of melancholy

Water streaming

Down her face

Night castling a paradise 

And seeking refuge with dreaming.

I saw the girl

Writing in pain

Howling because of

Anguish

And all her hopes drained


I saw the girl
Staring back at me in the mirror.

Of cold air

and gloomy clouds

Such darkness on it

It let go the rain

Like the girl I see

Sitting next her paper

Ripping the pages 

out of melancholy

Water streaming

Down her face

Night castling a paradise 

And seeking refuge with dreaming.

I saw the girl

Writing in pain

Howling because of

Anguish

And all her hopes drained


I saw the girl
Staring back at me in the mirror.

That's why I love to write
I can make all things possible
Even us.

Our eyes, given the first to see
The first to know what is
And what will be,
Close themselves
At the sight of a ray so blindinly bright
At a hint of a crash
At a drop of the rain
And at the first beam of the sun

Our hearts, given the first to sense
The first to feel what is
And what will be,
Do not close themselves
At the sight of a boy destructively lovely
At the hint of a future so crashed
At a drop of blood that bred from pain
And at its first beat, that means more than just a petty inclination.

For years I believed
I have sovereignty over me
That the power to choose whether or not someone could get inside me
Is solely on my hands

Perhaps my heart was wrong, after all.

For years I believed
The gates were made of steel
As strong as the power of heavens
That whoever tries to intrude
Cannot push through it

Perhaps my heart overestimated its power

For years I believed
That I could live without the flutters of the heart
Without the swirling and swarming of lights and deluge emotions
I believed I am on my own
That my hold on my guard has reached the strongest peak

*Perhaps my own heart has betrayed me.

Would you believe I feel
If I haven't sensed anything for years?
Would you believe I admire
If I have been cold my whole life?
Would you believe I dream
If I only dream about you?
Would you believe I love
If it's only with you?