Hoping, dreaming,
Wishing, praying,
Fasting, petitioning,
Crying, weeping.

A hundred days,
Bygone.

Hoping we could once more see your face,
As impossible as it sounds,
Dreaming, that someone, somewhere, some place,
Finally finds you, and that you're at last home bound.

A hundred days,
Of excruciating pain.

Wishing against the logic of the world,
That you're still fine, and you'll fall into my arms once again,
Praying to God, gods, goddesses, deities of the world,
That even if you're not lost forever, you're still okay, not in pain.

A hundred days,
Of sleeplessness.

Fasting, maybe not because we believe it'll help,
But food does not replenish anymore,
Petitioning to the saints above,
To ask the angels to hold you, forevermore.

A hundred days,
Of yearning.

Crying for that solace only closure brings,
That somehow its not a conspiracy and that the truth is revealed.
Weeping for every single person, every heartbroken family,
Who's dreams and aspirations lay now buried, concealed.

A hundred days,
Of timeless sadness.

They say time heals,
The say it will get better,
But nothing can better what we feel,
Not even time.

A hundred days,
Without conclusion.

I saw a bird,
On its feet on my kitchen floor,
And as swiftly as it came into visual,
It fluttered off.

It was a sparrow,
A small brown thing,
But alive and free.
And it made me smile.

It made me smile,
For all the reasons,
I don't have what it had,
Freedom, throughout the seasons.

Its always birds isn't it,
That make us think of freedom:
The flight of swallows in dusk,
Or the release of doves on Easter.

Its always those birds isn't it,
That make us feel deep within,
How it would be like to fly,
And to rise up above everything, above wind and sky.

But what does it really mean to be  free?
The wondrous spread of wings,
And the ability to lift off from the ground?
And to soar above the clouds?

It was a bird,
That made me smile,
And think to myself,
How so much more than a bird am I!

Silently watching,
Silently wondering,
If that's all you are...

That surface-level smile,
That skin deep smirk,
Concealing emotions worth a thousand pages.

"Is everything okay?"
The words flow out as easily,
As easy as they always do.

But those things in your head,
They don't run out from your tongue that easy,
As you give that smirk, hiding everything in that subtle nod.

Silently I wonder,
If everything is okay,
But I guess I'll never know...

If my blood could illustrate,
A picture to the world,
It will tell you the exact state,
How my heart pumps its hurt.

Each ventricle pumps emotions,
Pain, anger, hope,
Up to my brain,
And down to my toes.

Slithering through each artery and vein,
Blood carves my hearts pain,
In my head,
In my head.

Working through each capillary,
It forges anger and rage,
In my bones,
My aching bones.

After its done its work,
It fights back through each valve,
And pours back into the atriums,
Devoid of fury and pain.

It was used up,
Just like my tears,
My wasted energy for nothing,
It brought me no good.
Just more hurt.

And just slowly,
As the pain and anger dissipates from my system,
And fresh blood is packaged and sent,
From my bone marrows,
It brings along a slimmer of hope,
That this new cycle of blood would carry no more pain.

My body's here,
Right here,
In your arms,
Wrapped around me,
Your perfectly sculpted arms.

I feel your breath,
Your warm breath,
Right here,
I feel it,
And I feel no fear,
No fear.

I feel your kiss,
On the back of my head,
That kiss,
Which makes me complete,
Right here,
So near.

I turn,
And you're not here,
But still you feel so close,
Your touch, your breath, your kiss,
I know you'll return, back here.

You're taking your time,
You know my heart belongs to you,
And you alone,
And I'll still wait,
For you my love,
Right here.

The first

Drops for her,
The silent wish,
That it was different,
That I was not a burden.
It splashes down,
Splitting into a thousand little droplets,
Each a sorrowful entity,
Depicting each scene of heart-wrenching pain.

The second

Drops for him,
The silent prayer,
That I could be better,
A person you wished could be like you,
The man that could make you proud,
By just being a man
Not more, not less.
I'm sorry I'm less.

The third

Drops for me,
More than just silent,
More than just faint,
It crashes like thunder,
Bearing grief and pain,
That I am not what you expect,
Nor will I ever be,
And nothing can change that, even me.

These tears come hurtling down,
And maybe the figures are just figures,
It could be more, definitely more, I lost count,
But the awful truth is its always silent,
Never to be heard or seen...