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kairos May 2019
i have an identity that i keep hidden;
a secret life
that nobody suspects.

at dawn,
when the owls are sleeping,
and even the moon is dozing,
i'm awake, stiff on my bed,
eyes unwilling to rest.

my secret identity is a bully.
i yell,
you're a disappointment
you're numb
you don't deserve this
are you ever thankful for anything?

the victim shys away and covers her ears;
she doesn't want to deal with this tonight.
she cradles into a ball,
hugging her flaws tight.

but i whip her until tears of red form on her back,
push her until she falls.
i whisper into her ear,
YOU'RE WORTHLESS,
and she shows no response.

when the sky breaks with sunlight,
i stand in front of the mirror
observing my battle wounds from the night.

my shattered bones will heal,
the tears in my heart will mend,
and the scars on my back – they will disappear.
but the bully comes back every time,

haunting me with her relentless whispers.
kairos Mar 2016
The next thing I knew
There was the salt of my own tears

It was bitter on my tongue
It stung
Like the words

It's so cold,
It's so cold

Memories gradually rush in
In the place the overwhelming feelings

As if in a trance
I begin to recall them
One by one

And tears trickled down my wet cheeks
Again

When I realized that he was my world
And that I would never have him the way that I did before

Because when I look at you
All the others seems to drain of any colour

Everything seems so translucent around you
And I realised
kairos Jan 2016
bed
she cradled her heart
on the mattress of lies,
and the frames of guilt.

the blanket of ignorance
failed to give her warmth.

her scars,
bruises,
and the dried blood
in the arms of her cold body-

she cradled the hurt,
with slow tears down her cheeks.

wishing to forget
every breath of her existence

her hair ceased to hold her lies,
and her eyes didn't hide her green anymore.

she stared at her reflection,
her scars and bruises
on the very thing that kept her alive

the pain,
so intricately woven

with the purple blood
and the dark veins

and the alive muscle
that pumped for every breath of her existence-
kairos Jan 2016
A delicate soul;
A rambling mind-
Never stopping to rest,
As she ponders on

The grey sky
makes the clouds seem blue
They reflect the silver pool,
make it silver among the blue

Her thoughts rush in like a waterfall
Resilience at its best,
but now they pool
at my feet

into a silver pond
sitting
in the cold moonlight
chilled with the summer breeze

Birds come and go,
they sing a sweet melody
But they will always leave
amidst the sun

Now the thoughts are a silver pool
resting in the open;
A quiet retreat,
A wordless surrender.

A mindful resistance
against resilience

An acceptance of the thoughts,
A beautiful isolation
kairos Dec 2015
the purest amidst the lies,
the truth among the dark.

shaking behind the screens
smiling out of fear

cold
*so, cold
kairos Dec 2015
reaching out to brush away
a single thread of gold from her face,
his smile stopped the winds to hear his smile sing

her hair, threaded with gold.
she was broken as the sky below,
but threaded with hope-
resurrected from the grave of her dreams.

dancing with the ghosts,
in the flowering white dress,
glints of guilt framing her thoughts

broken, but with desperation
for a new inauguration
with a radical definition
to her adoration

rekindle the candle
let the rage be cooled
into a fiery calmness

he stopped to hold her delicate soul,
put it in a cast until it mends as a whole

broken, but for the better
to be made renew

reconstruction,
destroy with a purpose
destroy the askew
to squeeze out the last adieu
kairos Dec 2015
the old man creaked along the sidewalk,
his cane hobbling alongside his hobbling legs.

a little boy flew to him, and chirped:
my! how lovely this day is! only if my score was as lovely as today.

the old man turned slowly, eyeing him, and with his Toad of the voice,
he croaked:

oh, little boy, do not be fooled by the numbers on your paper!
for it isn't about the speed,
the perfection,
nor the quantity;
it's not about  how fast you can read a book,
or how many you have read.
if one does not understand and reflect on the story,
nothing has been gained.

the little boy tap-tap-tapped his impatient foot,
and blurted:
i know i'm not be the sharpest in the shed,
but i've never reflected on a story.

to define is to limit, the old man sang.
do not define yourself, dear one;
do not limit yourself.
how is the sky the limit when there are footprints on the moon?

the boy exclaimed:
oh! i would sure like to go to the moon!
how delightful!

the old man smiled a weathered smile,
as if it had been battered in a storm-
and he spoke gently.

i can sure see you on the moon, little boy.
do not limit yourself to the mere temporary goods in this parallel reality.
live each day without hesitation and regret,
for time is only the distance
between life and death.

make time the best you've ever had.

and now the boy,
with his bright beak-
he shone a brilliant smile.
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