In these clay-covered hands
I hold the last droplets of water
We laugh off the miseries
Drinking steaming tea
Stepping into pools of mud
Purposefully
Laughter on a leash
Follows us wholeheartedly
We hold onto the clouds
So that we don’t fall asleep
And miss these terracotta skies
That match our skin
Where within transcribed
Are hopes and dreams
A flower you are
So preciously delicate
And I’m here praying
That whatever I have left
Is enough to
Sustain
Your growth
Out of this midnight grief

We need to stop for a moment
and take a breath to be able
to return to what we hoped for.

Like remembering childhood
and the ways we learn to grow into adults
even though we never really understand anything that we have been through;
playing football in the field next to the house after school,
or rent a game console set for a weekend night,
or spend the next day watching television cartoons.

Let's remember what memory has given us for the good things in the past
that we may now think of as something we can't get back.

It's true, that never happens again, even if we try,
but the feeling is no longer the same as childhood being put on things
that should now earn an adult title.

Let's laugh in silence at all the fond memories of childhood,
even though now voices of the pain of waking up are trying to come in and dominate.

Let's reminisce,
and lose ourselves
in the hope of the present.

Writing
is not just about therapy,
but it is the love
that makes something impossible
become possible.
You will grow
among them in hope
and you will decide
to appreciate yourself
in the end.

I must've skipped that day in school,
when we were taught how to manage pain.

Sometimes
                     Depressed,
means knowing what you have to do but not knowing if you can.

Some cigarettes
that you have smoked
will tell you;
this is a life
where you must not give up
and keep trying
and hoping
for every good
that grows
from your breath.

She have never been into things such as growing a garden, they say her potential will have to be reached by a streak of light draping through the window pane.

she builds her greenhouse and collected some seeds, she doesn't sort if she'll grew by season or if it's a monstrous plant— she just want to see a lot of butterflies that she have never seen before.

she remain unimpressed, seeing a hues full of periwinkle and blues, roses and thorns decorated beautifully by her fragile hands, you can see on her plain tone the visible traces of paper cuts and ink blotch.

one day, a boy visited her garden, he grew fond and perpetrated on every flower she had. they sat on an empty, unfurnished room, filled with his paintings and brushes, not seem to notice the one uncleaned palette she used and left forgotten. She watched the boy as he paints, as if he knew every detail of his magic, it reminds her of the days she spent the same way, on how she loves it, tenderly in her heart— she said he was a stray butterfly, everything on him is luminous.

they spent their time there, little did the boy knew that she loves everything he had done on the garden. She wonders how a little misadventures were found in a wild wood.

Darling,
the words are now wilting,
give birth to the scent of roses.
The youth we fail to understand, expectations are increasingly wanted to always be fulfilled.
Bringing the flocks,
then grow and age.
If only things couldn't go away so easily,
maybe we've always been there.