she wrote a myriad of poetry
like blood from the wounds
pouring down onto a deep, mystical art

she wrote a myriad of poetry
like she kept her soul in tune
with a thousand words and unfathomed thoughts

she wrote a myriad of poetry
like they were all for the moon;
a midnight composition that often ends in three dots

she wrote a myriad of poetry
like a seamstress who tries to have her heart sewn
from all the inevitable loss and endings that tore her apart.


nonetheless, with tired eyes and hands,
the poet writes, hoping someone would understand.

IA

bedroom curtains drape before the sunrise,
as i long for catharsis and hope, not beautiful lies,
staring from the same corner with tired eyes;
some old wounds demands a grieving visit as time flies.

IA

it was remember to forget;
that then is not the same as now,
and miles have stretched in between since we have met.

IA