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Oct 2017 · 522
trapped
Moissa Oct 2017
I feel trapped
Though I'm not
I'm free as a bird
Soon to be shot

I can't breathe
It seems I'm trapped
Yet there's no latch
That I can clasp

Invisible forces
Cage me still
I am free
But not from myself.
Sep 2017 · 529
why i write
Moissa Sep 2017
They think I write because I'm feeling emotional.
Dear me.
I wish I was emotional.
But it's the opposite, really.
I write because I feel nothing.
And feeling nothing means feeling a dull thirst.
I thirst for productivity.
I thirst for activity.
I thirst for the passion long gone.

So I wring my hollow heart out
for any inspiration
and whatever drips from it
I maximize fully,
What little gasoline remains from it I use extensively.
I strike a match
and burn everything
as much as I can,
Because I know it's nonrenewable
And I have to hoard ideas from it while stocks last, use it until the embers burn out.
Sep 2017 · 449
Thoughts
Moissa Sep 2017
It's easy to write about the immediate things in your mind,
the things lingering in your mind's eye,
the things crossing on your pedestrian eyebrows,
the things that hover just beyond your peripheral vision,
the things that are to be blamed when people comment on your
"distracted look"...

It's so easy to write about them all and it's in times like this when I'm so thoughtless that I want to get those trivial things back-


My thoughts, that is.
Sep 2017 · 538
I miss my innocence
Moissa Sep 2017
it's nothing now but a
lingering scent
of the cologne I used to wear
as a child, running wild
with my only friend
in some Catholic school...
Sep 2017 · 376
self-hate
Moissa Sep 2017
I want to wallow in
the deep red ***** of self-hatred
not mainly because I want to
but because I've got no choice anyway.
It's comforting warmth has been
my safe space in this world
full of polite people demanding you to stop being so naked, to cover ****** parts of you with thin white suffocating *******-
I'm going crazy my works don't make any sense anymore.
Moissa Jun 2017
I also want to write poetry
when im happy;
to arrest the moment
with a pen and paper
and make the ephemeral eternal...

to catch the moment mid-laugh
and preserve it in some
oxygen-tight glassbox,
for me to look at it like a tourist would
in a museum-
whenever i feel like an unhappy phantom
on this sad sad world..
May 2017 · 622
Untitled
Moissa May 2017
depression isn't beautiful.
it's so **** ugly
that it checks its reflection on the mirror
from time to time
to make sure that the cheap make-up
holds up;
so that no one would notice,
no one would bat an eye
on its ugly and pathetic visage...
May 2017 · 360
the "d" word
Moissa May 2017
depression is never blue, nor gray,
nor black and white;
it is seeing colors for what they are
dissolving into one another,
creating beautiful montages
of vivid details...

but their beauty is never
a sight to behold,

you just look past them.
May 2017 · 793
Untitled
Moissa May 2017
how do you do that-
catch my breath,
stuff it in some glass jar-
as a pet;
watch it grow from a pupa
to a butterfly,
then let it go
just like that?
Jan 2017 · 961
Nocturnal Reveries
Moissa Jan 2017
Light up the sky for me;
because the world down below
is just too unbearable to see.
I wonder why shooting stars
choose to land in here;
if I were them
I would cling to the vast galaxy.

Say that I am right;
And just watch to indulge our eyes.
The world looks so harmless
when everybody shuts their eyelids
and closes their greedy minds.
I wonder what's the reason behind.

Darkness doesn't always mean sullen;
because it is what I anticipate in the morning.
But in order to see through it
I need a little glow-

So light up the sky for me
and let your burdens go.
This was my entry upon signing up in Hello Poetry. All rights reserved 2014.
Jan 2017 · 1.3k
In Your Shoes
Moissa Jan 2017
Your shoes,
I saw them lying neatly
Side by side upon the bridge.
Laces untied; socks in a crumpled bundle inside
As if you had just stepped out of them,
As if you had just left them on somebody else's doorstep.

Gingerly, I picked them up.
In the air I let my questions hang.
At what point in your life
Did these blood-red sneakers turn almost white?
Since when did its crisp signature logo
Turn into an unreadable smudge?

Worn out and faded,
Tattered and almost unrecognizable,
I barely knew the thing I was holding in my hands…

Perhaps you were too busy running
To even notice its deteriorating condition?
Never mind the cracks on the surface,
The thinning soles already caked in mud,
As long as they take you away from the darkness
Which seems to follow you everywhere.

For the last time, these shoes have served you.
Brought you in this unlikely place, on this very bridge.
Where you left them lying neatly side by side
As you took the way out, barefoot.

Hoping someone would step into them,
Feel for answers with their own toes.
And finally understand that
There were no haunting shadows in your pursuit

Because all this time

The darkness has always been inside you.
Nov 2016 · 457
Sick.
Moissa Nov 2016
I don't have a medical sickness.
I just want to throw up at your face.
I just want to **** the lead out of a thermometer to poison my vital organs slowly.
I just want to crack my head open to see if it's hollow or not; to see how millions of bland thoughts made its way inside my skull.
I just want to scream at your ears
As if I'm being cauterized... Or amputated... Or flayed by a demented surgeon-
As if strapped on a rusty hospital bed,
In a grimy and abandoned hospital building...

I just want to look at my blood sample under the microscope
to make sure it's not crawling with little red demons.
I just want to throw this bowl of hot soup at your paper-gowned skin when you come to check on me...
If I'm still worth reviving,
Or if I'm still worth killing,
Or if I'm still even worth gazing at.

I just want to lie in bed all day-
Feeling like a boiled carrot;
Feeling like a wet dog drooling away under the merciless sun;
Or a creature with no bones.
Feeling like a wilted flower, lost of all its glory...

I just want to stuff my mouth with so many pills and prescriptions,
And pretend to like the idea of dying, self-induced.
I just want to sweat this fever out.

I'm so sick of myself.
A poem I made last year.
Nov 2016 · 2.8k
The Tongue Analogy
Moissa Nov 2016
... For you couldn't have inflicted the venom

If it weren't for this little snake you call tongue

All its twisted dreams and sickest intentions

Just one utter to send the deadly pang...
Nov 2016 · 572
Resonance
Moissa Nov 2016
With manly aggravations he strums-

Strums the rust and the anguish away from the strings.

I saw them, floating away from him; vibrating in midair

Those compositions from his melancholy days,

Echoing...

The notes have, somehow, reverberated through my cathedral soul-

I can feel them.

I could still locate the ringing at the ceiling of my skull.

And if I wish to
I could even feel the faint tremors in my heart-

And realize it's actually pulsating...

But surely, it's just an after shock from the sounds resonating

It would fade away.

Of course it will just fade away.

It would fade away the moment he
stops playing.

— The End —