i don't remember most of my days;
time flows right past me —
it's like everyone is moving,
and moving on fast;
but grief, my grief
nails me down as they pass;
watching it all slowly;
watching them live their
lives before me –
watching my life
old scars don't hurt as much
because you learned to grow
accustomed to the pain.
but just because it hurts less,
doesn't mean you're not hurting.
when everything inside me disappears
and when i'm emptied dry —
it's when i truly come alive.
tattooed in papers,
held by mortal hands;
i am the ink chased down by death,
immortalised in words and letters,
trying (hoping) to be remembered.
these nights —
parts of me.
and so here's an ode
to all stories –
to the old, the new,
and the yet to be written.
you taught me that it was okay to be okay with being alone;
because it doesn’t always mean that we’re lonely;
it just means that we were okay with our own company.
and for that, I will always be grateful.
there are two types of sadness
there’s the kind of sadness
we ignore and
try to get rid of it
by finding new things to do
or we find someone to talk to
by blatantly avoiding any type of conversation
about feeling sad
about having any feelings at all
and then there’s that kind of sadness
that takes over
and it consumes any activity we do
we know it’s there
and there’s no possible way to avoid it
so we feed it exactly what it wants
it craves the sad music
it craves the isolation
it craves the anxiousness
and the sadness comes storming in
it has no manners
here we are calling sadness, an “it”
when all it is
is a feeling
that most people