oftentimes, darling, oftentimes—
i tumble down the stairs and
even flat grounds, with a noise
of childlike snivel upon seeing
myriad passers-by walk ever so
gracefully—my eyes green and
my soul blue.
oftentimes, darling, oftentimes—
i covet all the sugar in the jar,
all the gold my mum stored,
while furiously daydreams
of how sweet and fair
i would be.
(oh, the avarice, the inebriating pleonexia.)
yet come to think of it—wouldn't i
be one teller of untruths, to my
own and the crowd, for i offer
them heartlessly made rainbows
in exchange for glory? no, that is
not—and should not be—me.
my brainchildren—they were born
to be knights against the demons
banging the walls of my head,
the antidote to the head and
heartache suffocating me.
even further, i can't let go
of the true pleasure of
humming to the tone of
experimentals, the sudden
light in my head, and the
crowd questioning them—
my brainchildren.
hence i solemnly swear—
to stay unfeigned, even with
thousand blemishes in every
crevice—and thrive till the
end of the line.
(i am me, and so be it.)
i often feel bad about my works, i often feel that i should stop doing this, i often feel that i want to be seen or i lacked recognition, i often doubt my purpose of writing. i still feel that kind of feelings. but the thing is, i will continue to write from my heart, and for myself—for this is one of the things that keep me alive.
