The morning is cold.
Last night’s chill hangs everywhere.
How unwelcoming...

You scroll through your social media where people have sworn not to show what they feel like so their 'profiles' can be aesthetic to look at.
You look at dog videos and swear not to think about your dead dog with whom you never got to cuddle one last time.
You walk through streets you've never been to hoping that it'll lead to a story.
You kiss boys and girls you don't really like and pretend you're waiting for the three-days-later call. You constantly listen to Cardi B because you can't take another Bon Iver song.
You fake a smile, an ******, a brave face.
You look at where you're staying and pretend not to long for that one little park in Paris where  you could spend your entire life.
You unblock the ones you lost and feel a fleeting sense of comfort in knowing that they're not happy either and block them again, to feel 'powerful'.
You look back at your journey and sigh because you haven't done enough. You curl into your uncomfortable bed.


And then you realise you're not done.


You realise your journey is just starting. There's so much left for you to say and do and teach and feel. You realise that the best part about yourself is that you're hopeful, despite it all. You realise that despite all the bad that has gotten to you, there's still good, and you can create it. You realise that you've places to go and people to fall for. You've learnt to become your own teacher and your own pupil. You realise that the sky is not the limit for you. You think people calling themselves a work in progress is a cliché, but you know you're one yourself. You're not magnificent. But you will be.


So you light up a cheap cigarette and play the Bon Iver song. And you wait.

Vague,
the expression of response
in a relentless jade,
conjuring up primevals
risen from her house arrest.
She lives through the days of tension
by her own fortitude,
clutching to her privacy
as if a means of escape
to which she can be locked within.
Mendacious moments,
walking towards a primrose path,
allude her to try and smile.
But she knows she need not pretend,
for just as her hair falls casually
over her face,
she winces her pain
into a controlled tremble.
Proposed to glide under
freshly minted skies,
in words filled with undertone
and in serenades
softly played by calendar
chimes.

Sometimes,  
I feel like, I’m drowning.  
This feeling–  
a never-ending rush,  
of water, that cascades
throughout
my body,
my veins,
leaving me submerged
from the inside.  
This feeling–  
a longing for the mundane
when I could wake
to the sound of a 6:00am bell
and not,
have it be answered
by a throb
from within my skull.  
Today,  
my mind,  
sags, like telephone wires
swaying tirelessly  
in summer heat.
My bones,  
ache.  
These feelings–  
a second self  
carried
through this tired will
of conduct, I call mine
much like the nails
on my fingers  
and the hair,  
upon my scalp.

I'm barely at home
There's my wooden furniture
These my plates of chrome
A fridge full of nourishment
My marble dome
But I'm barely at home

I've barely a hearth
This a room of my choosing
That there my land on earth
My book shelf for musing
Amenities for mirth
But barely a hearth

and in the words i find
no comfort as i crawl
away to my demise
sad eyes glued to a device

no poem in months
no one seemed to notice
that i missed out on the fun
and that i had nowhere to run

tags and labels
hoping i'll be noticed
but my attempts come to no avail
and my imagination has gone stale

romance is bleak
i'm not sure what to say
care is obsolete
love is incomplete

music is all i'm good for
and that's not even enough
so i sit here on the floor
begging them to shut the door

well, since there is no end in sight
maybe i will end this here
if i may and if you might
turn away if this gives you fright

I am not the princess.
I've had a pea under my mattress for a while now,
But you've found no concern in that.
In fact, it's slowly been duplicated.
At first, only by a few,
Then dozens.
Now there are hundreds of them,
Unconstrained by the confines of the bed.
But so long as there are peas,
You will argue them to fit.
So long as there are peas,
I will lie, uneasy,
Though I am no princess.