Why I couldn't I post a photo here on HelloPoetry? Hmm.. Too bad..

She is a scripture of broken promises and shattered dreams. Every step felt like walking on mysteries and every breath felt like drinking secrets.

She is a mess from another mess of a family. Every moment was another sad memory and every single remembrance was already a forgotten dream.

She is a painting covered in ink. Her colors have turned black and her lines have been smeared. She is a canvas no longer wanted because of a stain she cannot remove.

And so I tell her, look up. Stop stepping on mysteries. Stop living on sad memories. Stop letting your colors fade. Become as vibrant as your soul and become a masterpiece painted by yourself.

Do not throw yourselves to the bottom of the pit because of people who want to use you only as a stepping stone. Do not bring yourselves down because of flaws you are taught to hate because those flaws are what make you different. Those flaws are what make you beautiful and those flaws are what make you see the beauty in yourself. Do not hate others because of things you do not accept and do not turn from those who need help.

You are a scripture of promises and dreams and that very thing is the reason of your existence. To love and be loved by others but more especially to be loved by yourself. Understad that the hardships you have gone through are the lessons you will remember. You are allowed an infinite number of chances to turn things around, but remember to make every chance matter.

Remember to give people your heart and remember to give yourself patience. Patience to grow and patience to love. Patience to learn and patience to accept.

Learn to live how you want to live, because your life is a story that you write with your hands. Do not let others write your story for you. Write your story with your own words, sentences, paragraphs, memories, remembrances, dreams, promises, and with your very being.

Write with your hands; write with your soul.

Who told you good artist are only see in television?
For they being so effinly good we didn't realize they are hiding in the screen name who we call "FRIEND",
Or some random people around us who other people mistakenly call "FRIEND".
They can act that they care,
They can be a newscaster who will talk behind your back,
They can make you cry,
They can be the Antagonist,
But a good girl in their story..

So be careful whom you call "FRIEND" .

The surface of the water
Was rippled with a seemingly
Endless series of tiny waves
Like the goosebumps that
Elaborately covered
The flesh of your
Naked thighs.
The sound of the sea
Hungrily kissing the white sands of the shore.
The faint whispers of the wind...
The afternoon was pregnant
With poetry
But all the poetry it bore
Was pregnant of you
You
Of which there was no escape.

“So when people leave, I’ve learned the secret: let them. Because, most of the time, they have to.

Let them walk away and go places. Let them have adventures in the wild without you. Let them travel the world and explore life beyond a horizon that you exist in. And know, deep down, that heroes aren’t qualified by their capacity to stay but by their decision to return.”

As I huddle in this corner of my room, as far away from any entrance as I can get, I can hear them coming for me.

I cringe as I hear them whispering my name, close my eyes as I see their shadows run past my windows and door. They're at the door now, beating against it, scratching it, whispering all of the grotesque things they want to do to me.

WHY  WON'T  THEY  JUST  LEAVE  ME  ALONE?!

I feel the cold steel of our kitchen knife in my hand, and I barely notice myself lifting it up, pointed at my neck.

I feel a moment of clarity now, as I close my eyes. It's better to die by my hands, than by theirs. This is my last moment of resistance.

*Goodbye

Chapped lips
Dark circles
Boring days
Anxious nights
Dangerous habits and thoughts
Slipping back in my mind
How much longer
Do I have to do this?

What you think,
you become.
What you feel,
you attract.
What you imagine,
you create.

I don't understand why we must do things in this world, why we must have friends and aspirations, hopes and dreams. Wouldn't it be better to retreat to a faraway corner of the world, where all its noise and complications would be heard no more? Then we could renounce culture and ambitions; we would lose everything and gain nothing; for what is there to be gained from this world?

I want to write a novel about silence. The things people don’t say...

There are things that we don't want to happen, but to accept,
Things we don't want to know,
But have to learn,
And people we can't live without,
But have to let go.

Humans?
Yes.

Humanity?
NO.