i plant seeds of solitude
water them at 12 noon
it sprouts every midnight
dies when you’re around.

The clock keeps ticking but it remains in one place
My mind keeps running yet stays in its old phase
I'm pacing back and forth but my feet never chase
My soul never got out, yet I am out of trace.

ten twenty-five of the clock,
in the evening of September,
there were still gentle drizzles
but the heavy rain, the foggy sight
had vanished from the view
of my broken jalousie window

ten twenty-five o'clock,
in the morning of May,
i could hear the birds chirping,
singing, perhaps, their favorite song.
i gazed upon my sliding window
and saw the mesmerizing swirling
and falling of leaves,
dancing gracefully, beautifully.

ten twenty-five o'clock,
i fell but it wasn't a sight to look at,
i crashed and so do my sliding window...

spring season isn't near enough,
my jalousie window still has some of its part
but maybe in the morning of May,
i will be gazing again to see the dancing leaves
through my altogether broken jalousie window.

She felt like nothing but a vast empty land
with cracks on every part of its soil,
wished for some drizzles,
yet the clouds let a downpour—
the spaces, the gaps, were filled
by the huge and rapid drops of rain.
It was overwhelming to see,
it happened so suddenly.
With enough courage, bravery,
she let out the emotions, slowly, achingly.

i cry out for freedom,
not from the government or
from the society or from
any other thing that holds
absurd rights of caging
one believed free spirit;
i cry out for freedom
from the only thing i
cannot escape,
from the only thing
that has all the rights
to embrace me,
i cry out for freedom from
myself—
my body, my mind, my heart.

i never knew silence that much
until that very afternoon
when i tried so much
to hold my teardrops
and hide the sobs
that were exploding inside
my weary body
and my wrecked soul

i wonder,
if i was found dead that day,
would they think 'twas suicide
or would the police say,
"she was slain by the silence
that was enclasped within her solitude"?

Her life is a constant wonder
with soul incessantly wandering
the blues of the deepest voids,
oblivious of the turquoise-blue
it could've found in the shallow of the sea.

She has a mind that seems recondite,
abysmal and profound
she still searches for the meaning of each word
for, to her, it doesn't seem much wrong
maybe the reason she is not understood by many
is because she is not trying to be.

Life can be hard to decipher sometimes
one won't be certain of living
with the absence of existence
yet the other one is certain of existing
even without living.