When clusters of anxieties roam inside me i try to read the blank last page of my life.

I’ll still love you long after
we’re gone.
When we’re just two names forgotten
with time.
Yours will stay wherever mine goes.
Wherever that is.
I’ll find you again.

***** fingernails
and cheap wine.
Fleetwood Mac and chicken tenders.
Snapping you little flirty faces
saying how much I’d like to make out.
Feels like we’re a couple of teenagers drunk in like.

Just a silly girl who can’t wait to see you
and pretend you don’t know what I look like
in the dark.

The wild side of living life
Is that nothing can be tamed;
Everything is changing,
Nothing stays the same.

But with new wind
comes inspiration,
And even though
There's consternation,

You can always count
On life to sway-
And throw each line
Of the rule book away.

The woman, the one whose intellect stands and pleads on her legs, bring about equality
But whose body recoils not out of her own conformity
Manoeuvre balletic,compassionately and LADYLIKE
Humanity continually directs her, she is a woman, and that is her lone portrayal
Where she yearns to put her foot down ,
she is always giving a foot stool
Assistance is what she needs
Her being independent is hazardous
Only scrutinised for what she wears
underneath her garments
identified solely as a exquisite blossom
A instrument for the hands of society to play
The artistry of woman’s body withholds plenty functions
That men lust for
Gratification being the prime reason
The make-believe contrast bound by  “She and He”.
A level of credit is disposed from men.
Pureness faraway from conclusive
Self-pride being fundamental
Society makes this concrete description.
How to act according to our particular
In order to be respected in the eyes of the people.
of lust and desire.
To gratis herself, to alter what being a woman means,
what (gender) equality means.
Women shouldn’t be criticised by the dimensions of a skirt
A women shouldn't feel apprehensive to chase her dreams
because of society’s wail
It shouldn’t be intricate for all to be the same
to be equivalent
Free of cost from the penny priced stereotypes

We are just words that sing upon the page,

                                       but some never touch.
Singing in our thoughts.

Repetitive and with meaning, but never
                       do we write a word for us to cling too.


Always humming that repetitive metaphorical tune,
                          that  completes a hum down the line
                                  to a verbose culmination


and we still hum it even now further down the line.

he wanted to see if we were on the same page.
meanwhile, I was reading a different book.
its past chapters made me wince in pain,
which lived - unhealed - within me.
as his fingers lightly caressed the pages,
he whispered, "acknowledge the pain,
then close the book. you can't live like this.
we can get through this and read the same page."
I turned to the past chapters, heart pounding in fear.
instead of wincing and hurrying to the end,
I read those pages, absorbed every word,
understood the story, acknowledged its lessons,
and released it to make room for a new story.
then - and only then - I closed the book.
I kept the lessons and sat next to him.
he showed me the book he was reading from,
and now we're finally reading from the same page.

Thoughts racing,
trying to fill another page of this book with my story,
sewing in new sheets of paper to build some space.
Space between me and the page saying
The End.

Turning the pages, looking back at some from many years ago.
I read about a little girl, happily exploring the world.
She doesn't know about pain or despair.
Just look at her glowing eyes.

Progressing in the story, a few years later.
I watch a little girl, crying, covered by the blanket.
She doesn't want others to see, 'cause they'll just laugh anyway.
In her home, she has no room.
The whole house is filled with her father yelling.
The whole house is filled with her mother crying.
The only place for her sorrow is deep inside herself.
Just look at her puffy eyes.

Skipping a few chapters, years of searching and hoping.
I hear a little girl, laughing loud.
Nobody heard her screams when she needed them.
At least, when she's being loud, they notice her.
Being lost and out of control she hurts others.
When they scold her, they look at her.
Just look at her pleading eyes.

Going through pages of her trying to understand what she's done.
I hear a little girl swearing she'll never hurt anybody else.
She'd rather hurt herself to cope with the severe cold of this world.
So she builds a wall to keep everyone out,
to trap the wrath inside.
But she forgot the fear was already there.
Just look at her empty eyes.

Flipping the pages to read the ones from a few weeks ago.
I see a little girl drowning in tears and self doubt.
Apparently the wall she built long time ago is still standing strong.
A lot of 'Wanted' posters are hung on it from both sides,
but neither can reach through.
Just look at her anxious eyes.

I'm sitting here crying,
hoping my tears will wash away the letters on these pages.
But they won't.

So I'll keep on sewing pages.
Hoping one day I'll read the one about a girl who's come home.
About a girl who tore down the wall,
about a girl who built a place in a house to live in.
Until then I hope to have enough strength to put
space between me and the page saying
The End.

you cant always make pain leave.
it knows its directions.
it knows how to follow you home.
pain knows its way to your sheets.
it knows which side of the pillow is colder.
if it ever visits you tonight
just let it in,
lead it to the blank pages
of a notebook.
there,
it will stay.
between these lines,
this is where it stays.