She never felt she belonged
So read and tried to pretend
She buried herself in a book
Where she could drift
‘Till she was beckoned

Her heart aligned to the character
She felt their pride and pain
Her queen of snow and winter
After she closed the pages
her mind remained

She created worlds in her head
Imagination was her best friend
At night she’d Lie in bed
To a whole different world
In which she’d ascend

Her heart was shattered like a glass
Her demons tearing her apart
She pleads and prays alas
They never would just go away

Look too closely and you will find
The secrets her mind hides
They are always with her
Not a second out of sight

Tries to live in the tales
That she just never fails to read  
She’d travel to places and see people
Who would never make her bleed

Suddenly she’s back in reality
There they are waiting, taunting
When all she wants do is stop this haunting

Maybe I will walk a little bit more
Fall more than I thought
Love more than i fought
Maybe I will feel a little bit more
Numbness of heartbeat
intense emitted heat
Maybe i ll drive a little bit more
Underneath the sea of thoughts
Deserted sand
The cracked drought
Maybe i will live a little bit more
Surviving till moon bathed  in light
Reaching no where
The circular flight
Maybe i ll walk a little bit more
More than I believe
Hoping for calm
A gasp of breath in breathe

The people from your hometown and I
got something big in common;
we always wait for you.
And your words.
They complete and make our days.
If not all, then most days.
We await news from you
like a rooster would wait for sunshine
before it sings in the morning.
Like I would wait for you
to tell me you adore me before I can sleep,
and wake and repeat this all over again.

at the age of twenty-two i fell in love with the guy who can't pronounce my name, who only says i love you when he bites my lip (there are times that he forcibly opened my mouth and search for the dead poetries i buried 2 years ago).

at the age of twenty-four he asked me to undress myself while his eyes are stabbing my chest (i did and he stabbed me so deep that until now i can't get the blade off). he smashed my small body on the bed and abandoned after he found another poetry hiding in between my legs (i picked myself up after he left).

at the age of twenty-five he asked me to give every poetry blooming inside of me (but what can i offer if i'm alone with typos and errors?)

at the age of thirty i'm nothing but a cover page (no, i'm not a poetry book after the reader ripped off my pages).

If readers were made rulers
Their knights would wield pens
Their wars fought on paper
And their subjects imaginary