I know, what is the real pain being alone..
I know, what is the feeling walk around in the dark place..
I know, what is the meaning when your wish become true in the difference way..
I know, what is the cost for being silent..
I know, what is the effort for make my self stronger..
I know, what is my mind become crazy when I thinking about it alone..
But I still don't know about true love..
Isn't love still exist in this world?
Isn't love only grow on mindset?
Isn't love will make someone being part of someone life?
I don't know..
I know nothing..
Tell me what should I do ?
I breathe dust and think fire
my mind sizzles with spirit
I write with my left hand and see with both eyes
but that doesn’t matter.
thoughts without thought
diffuse like poisonous gas
from the mouth of the man
his audience inhale malefic fumes
“Homosexuality is against the will of mother nature” he hisses
yet she is nowhere to be seen.
when rain falls to the concrete
she cries like the rest of us
I am trapped in his freedom
his right to speak as he likes
takes away my right
Only silence remains.
I will not be reduced
to a title
a fixture of mindless rhetoric
yet his words continue
screeching darkness in my ears
he doesn’t know love
but he’ll do all that he can
to strip it from others
when his daughter sobs into her pillow
and drips her scarlet shame on the white bathroom tiles -
until then his forked tongue will flick venom in the air
the narrow tunnel of his mind unmined
I long for the day
people think before they say:
I am not
The clouds grin so wide,
I swear all I get is clear skies
Showing off a sunny smile,
We ain't had weather like this in awhile.
Forget winter for a moment
And examine the plentiful green of those trees,
Without taking it for granted,
Planning our next seeds
While feeling the beautiful heat
Why do I always deny this scenery?
Life is the
ripples we create
by skipping stones
in the sea.
Some of us
are still searching
have found ways
to perfect even the
roughest of stones.
Look at this garden,
Look in the corner for your eyes to arise
withering trees covered in dying vines,
can't say I didn't try to experiment.
You got rotten oranges giving such
a sickly fragrance,
then there are recently rotten blackberries,
maybe something can be salvaged
but too pessimistic for picking
to reclaim them.
Scattered rotten grapes are littered everywhere;
I always hear the scrunching patter
but persist to do nothing about it.
Dead center is a table holding a box
labeled "*******" instead of "fragile"
possessing 9 rotten apples.
trust me, we don't talk about it;
examine if you're up for it.
I notice surviving flies flying around
probably fighting to not die.
how does anything persist to stay alive?
I suppose its a good sign for this garden
as it is not to be abandoned just yet
I just need to buy better seeds.
There's one thing on your mind
Being overthinking is good in your health.
You can be creative in such way
You can multitask things you want
You can look at things differently
And try to accompany it in your life.
And apply it in your daily basis
A train of thought
With its narrow windows.
Snapshots of the world.
Sit down next to each other
And see the world flying by.
"If you're so good with words, then be a writer"
"It'll be a good release for you"
Sure, it's all fun and games until you actually crack open your chest and pour out whats inside on white pages, now stained forever with the black ink of the cruelty of one's own mind.
The pain rots and sheds,
as it smoulders her bones
and burns her skin third degree.
Loss and jealousy enwrap
her scorched heart into ashes,
while lava flows off her tongue
as it promises vengeance.
She becomes a vortex of emotions
engulfing her own life,
dwelling in the
merry go round thoughts.
Until she picks up the pen
and tucks the rage and ache
within the 26 alphabets
to sentences to paragraphs.
Ashes and embers stain the paper
as they ebb, blot and flow,
crafting the cathartic relief
until the paper stains darker
than the shades of her mind.
The blues that would pour,
become the budding flowers
in her chest.
cobblestones into steppingstones,
amplifying her narrative.
She tosses the losses
and crosses beyond the horizon.
A candle flame burns deep
inside her solar plexus
as she transmogrifies the shards into a mosaic;
the strings of the web she was entangled in
weaved into embroidery to embellish her soul.
The cries and lies,
made her wise
as she built from the same sorrows
she was drowning in.
She put her ache on cadence
and turned up a brain wavelength.
She finally found her salvation
a dive deep and wide into
the depth of introspection
pulling from the cronies and nooks
the parts built and undiscovered.
She armed herself with
empathy fueled passion
as she has burnt, learnt
and learn to yearn the better
while she steers forward
with a transfigured mindset.
For the people who came,
now leave as poems.
not happy but content.
stable but not healed.
rebirthing but not quite alive.
we'll be alright.