A lady shall not cry, Sansa believe,
For tears are badges of the weak.
A lady shall tell tales about her joyful place.
A lady shall sing songs about gallant knights who saved the land.
A lady shall let her betrothed kiss her, touch her when he likes to.
A lady shall not curse,
A lady shall not,
A lady shall.
A lady shall throw Sansa into the dark, eerie dungeon, I'm afraid.
Fall down, Your Grace, into the remains of your daydreams.
The world is not an excerpt from your songs and stories;
It can't always give you new flowers when the old ones go dying.
People **** people. Who are we to rule and tell them not to?
You think your House's honor will save you, but it won't.
See, where did Father's honor take him?
To the grave, to the grave, I sing.

I can't be a lady forever.
I can't always smile and tell the world everything's fine.
I can be a knight, I can be a king, I can be a child,
I can be all of them at once.
I can and will say no when I want to,
I am uncontrollable,
I am wild,
I am brilliant,
and I am not
and will not be
anything everyone commands me to be.

There was this girl, not knowing where she was going.
At all times she wandered, she tried to forget.
What the real world tasted like—she did not know.

Tell her about the songs the sky creates; she'd like that.
Tell her you'll rescue her when she starts to drown
in them; she'd bleed down your name and not care
about the mess she would make.
As if saving someone, who rather have you deluge them
with more rain, was an offense.

One daybreak, the eighth page of my history book went missing.
The next night it flew into my window glass,
and then landed safely on the isle of my hands. It read:
*            The past is behind.
            The future is ahead and may never arrive.
            Why would you believe in them?*

She used to say there's something calming whenever
darkness wraps up the woods. And the silence that comes after it.
And something blazing bright—a cabin.
Never trust cabins, she once said, burn them before they burn you.
I should have listened.

And I wondered,
"Why is everything so beautiful from afar so dangerous up close?
the sun,
the stars,
the supermassive black holes,
the hypernovae,
the gamma-ray bursts."

To my surprise,
I muttered,
"Your mind wondered so much, ***,
you didn't notice it was becoming one."

You were worth making art out of melodic words, weren't you?
But somehow I couldn't stop writing about the aftermath of someone's storm.
And for that, I am truly sorry.

I remember you were that band guy who so beautifully struck drums
that even my inexpressive veins danced at every beat,
that even my defensive walls collapsed,
that even my unreadable emotion became everybody's open book—
a sweet, tragic thing: these episodes never happened.

You were almost that answer every mad mind so long desired.
I almost stopped mastering the art of stomping on people's hearts before they do.
I almost dug a burial ground for the corpses of my
pouring-love-out-to-someone-who-only-knows-how-to-spit-it-back­­-out.

What I am sure about is this:
I never want to feel it again.
I can only look at another tombstone with your name engraved on it
and smell the scent of flowers I stole from some rotten body,
while the wind plays symphonies with the endless,
"Almosssst,
almossst,
almosst,
almost."

With both arms, powerless and unguarded,
I shall wait,
hold close again the world detached to mine
and call it 'home.'

Now the risky part is to dispirit my pulse.
Oh, too late—
in an undertone it says,
"This isn't a kingdom.
This is martyrdom."

If they want to leave, let them leave.
You are not a cauldron
waiting to be surged with fervors
and then gets bequeathed when castoff.

You are the firestorm—
adorned,
impervious,
divergent,
blazing bright.

Together we shall burn them,
bathe them with our ferocious flames,
and we shall be treacherous.

There was nothing he could feel, he thought,
nothing but the surging of words blotting his sleeves,
creating marks of what he should've said
yet he never did.

There was nothing he could see, he thought,
nothing but the reflection in the mirror he loathes.

There was nothing there, he thought,
nothing but the menacing screams
of his abandoned self
bouncing off the walls of his home,
pleading to be brought to life.

For a second he thought he was getting benumbed,
like those he senses were just a delusion,
a disguise that he wasn't in agony
for the tormenting hands of reality.