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i collect patches of poetry
and pluck them out of day-to-day musings
of a woman born before her time,
as she leisurely runs her hands
across and over too ripe fruits.
i do not complain nor place them
in tattered and worn baskets.
instead, the fruits of this history fall to the ground.
unabashed, they line up with blades of grass.
the wind is strong,
there is a clash.
my words tangle like the branches of unkept bushes
- poetry is enough, i know. i see.
a silhouette of bible verses and revelations coming
from inside me.
reverie and rhythm, festival sighs.
it takes 20 years worth of courage to stay still,
the berries would taste wonderful, i know.
but the soil is hungrily swallowing my ankles -
serving justice for my leaving,
for my formulating, and then abrupt untangling.
my adoration turning into a mirage of nothing.
the retribution is famished yet true.
and so in my head, it grows, and grows, and grows.
but i can taste the fruits now.
no rhythm, no rhyme,
no muse.
i walk away barefoot, onwards, where i am deserved
where i am worth fighting for,
where i am buried but not so i could die,
but so i could be planted.
i have been ignoring the fruits, the burst of flavor in every line of poetry my mind screams. plant me beside my favorite oak tree.

sad to say, this is not the original and first version of the poem.
life tasted sweet
under your eyelashes,
******* strawberry-flavored flowers,
and spitting out the seeds
which would eventually grow into
humble spite.

when the ground was bare,
and the atmosphere was intact,
my eyes never left your fingers
and my sharp friend never forgot
the taste of my strawberry wrists.

bittersweet in the sense
that you tend to forget
that my fate is my gold
it is time to work.
it is time to get old.

we are never going back under this tree again.
(aren't we?)

for it is the calling.
it is time to speak with the tongue of love -
for myself.
no longer pink
from the strawberries.

i want to look loud,
i want the flavor of the world beyond.
i want to **** the clouds until they
gravitate back to earth.
i want to be satisfied,
not full.
full circle. life has changed drastically for the past years. i'm excited to get back to writing. i hope you're all doing well **
the doc said,
"try to trust people
more. show them that
you care. tell them
how you feel."

to which i agreed.
maybe, it will
help me.
clear my head.
fix me.
by letting others
see, just how broken i am
and allow them to
try and put
me back.

the next day i said,
"ma. wanna read
my poems?"

she said,
"im busy honey, maybe later."

i never asked again.
and she forgot.
i never went back to doc,
and my mom still
thinks i hate her.
we all have a layer of paint,
settling like second skin on our bodies.
don't even deny it,
just because nobody sees.
when the darkness have risen,
so do we, along its rough edges
secrets crust, faces emerge
and we bathe under their grudges.
knives are sharpened,
tongues begin slashing,
and you don't even care
you don't even care
you don't even care
she was gone

before i could even tell her,
that her voice was loud enough,
and the way she colored me
never matched anyone’s.

the missed years
and wasted sunsets
now sit across the table,
mocking me into submission.

there was a lot i could’ve done for her.
it now rests upon my shoulder,
they form like alien letters
and weigh like blood.

the legends are real,
listen - i know now.
there is nothing heavier
than bearing who you were everyday.
this is the year to be free. please please, if you’re still hurting - i hurt with you, and so know that i guess it’s okay to get better. we will get better. happy new year, poets. may our love never die.
here is my heart,
here it is.
you are reading it.

"why do poets
have this courage?"

"what courage?"

"to be open."

"we were the caged.
we were the voiceless.
but now,
we are not.
don't let our courage make you believe
we have always been brave."
i love you all just wanna say this
and so i crawl back again
even though
i promised not to return

the sun has melted my wings
and the blades of grass
marred my flesh

the earth turned its back on me
so i'm sorry
i'm sorry,
for once again,
here's my poetry.
poetry,  i'm sorry i ever left.
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