When things improve, I stumble and fall,
Self-sabotage whispers, questioning it all.
A perpetual cycle, back and forth I go,
Please, release me from this remorseful woe.

My anxious heart given a chance to soar,
Freed from shackles, yet I was careless.
In my own undoing, I tarnished the key,
Locked away the possibility of you and me.

You embraced this fool who turned from the world,
Your soothing presence and your words, warmth swirled.
Echoes in my chest, what was once lost, unchained,
Emotions surge - a tide - each part regained.

I won't revert to the person of old,
No more shivering, no more words left untold.
The reflection in the mirror, standing strong,
I'll rectify missteps, admit I did you wrong.

This time! Just this time please! Let redemption be my rhyme!

From the perspective
Of improvement I can see
That there was a lot of
Darkness in me,
Or mayhap more an absence
Of light,

I am not,
Nor ever have been
A bad man,
But I have done many bad things
And things of which
I am ashamed,

I have lived in fear
And under the accrued
Accretion of a life lived
Thoroughly most surely,
If not always really
All that well,

Like a boat left too long afloat,
With a hull encrusted
With barnacles
And **** such
That good sailing is but
An impractical dream,

But now I have careened my life,
Hauled myself over on a beach
At low tide and scraped
My bottom clean,
Painted with the antifoul of faith
And returned myself to the builders spec,

You may not notice
The lack of ****,
The absence of barnacles or
My changed behaviour,
And thats okay,

You will however,
Even through your judgement,
Lack of forgiveness
And self important rage,
Notice most particularly

That I am gone

From the perspective
Of improvement I can see
That there was a lot of
Darkness in me
Or mayhap more an absence
Of light,

I am not  
Nor ever have been
A bad man,
But like many "not bad men"
I have done bad things
To people that I love,

And that does not
Sit easy with me,
But looking deep inside
I can see not so much
That I have changed
As regained my true self,

It is as if that bright pure
Core in me became,
Like the hull of a vessel
At sea
Encrusted with ****
And barnacles,

A lack of awareness of
Other's needs or hurts,
A selfishness and unworthiness
Of action and attitude,
Even towards my kin
And she that I adore,

These things encrusted
My good heart,
My core,
With unworthiness
That dimmed the light
That burns within me,

I am like a sailing ship,
Emptied of loose gear and
Run up on a beach,
Masts hauled down and hull
Heeled hard over,
To expose encrusted planks

To daylight,
Then the indignity
Of scŕaping awày that ****
And in front of one I love
To boot,
But I got my brightness back

And now, like
That sailing ship,
I am newly refloated,
Reprovisioned,
In all respects ready
For sea,

And I wait for
A destination,
And - God willing - a fellow
Vessel to sail with,
Preferably in close company,
Or otherwise

Alone

Have you ever noticed the shifting of words?
Greetings, what say you from yonder place?
Our words seem tainted, decaying, toxic to me.
Curiously, they still gleam and resonate on the surface,
Yet do you fathom their quandary?
"They lack all significance, meaning naught.
Witness it for yourself.

From a scientific stance,
Humans fashioned words to expand the realm of knowledge,
Now known as information, a shared bounty.
But behold the transformation...

As darkness fell, and men slumbered beneath shared stars,
War erupted, coercing us to buy dubious wares,
In exchange for a false promise of peace, Hughes deemed a friend,
To escape condemnation, death or prison, for dissenting views,
Once taboo in bygone days.

Generations passed, civilizations rose and crumbled,
Yet one truth remains amidst this eternal dance,
Forgotten is the words' power to inspire fear,
Instead, they become mute pages, hushing silence.

Do you remember consuming those ceaseless warnings?
How could I forget the myriad of prohibitions?
Reiterated by parents, society, teachers, priests,
Till their words turned meaningless babble,
Thankfully coated in apologies, "I'll never do it again,"
Though never intending to in the first place,
Yet they sowed seeds of sinister thoughts within my shadows.

We all proclaimed, "In five minutes," or "Tomorrow I'll start," or
"This time, I'll never be late for..."
Mere piles of reeking ******* they truly are.
How did we reach a juncture where words lost their essence?
Reducing the world to a brothel, a circus, bereft of meaning.

Alas, the mightiest declarations endure the test of time.
Honesty, Justice, and the Truth.
"That all may honor the Son as they do the Father.
He who disrespects the Son, disrespects the Father who sent him."
Ironically, such words have unsettled men for centuries,
Though once uttered with genuine intent.
And who rendered them void?
Politicians, lawyers, professionals, advertisers,
All who employ words as tools, and we with our posts and likes,
Craving more likes,
Fueling the fire with greater fervor,
More love, more laughter, more, more, more,
On the obnoxious host, like...

Do you grasp the meaning of "fast"?
Similar to "pray and fast,"
Fast!
To seal, confine, shut away, that is its core.
To observe weeks of silence, refraining from speech.
Sadly, our oral sphincter shall not comply,
Yet closure is within reach.

Do you truly seek to infuse your life with new purpose?
Fresh words?
Then embrace silence for seven, or better yet, twenty-one days,
Abstaining from discourse entirely,
Not even a whisper, eschewing
Social media, tranquil and attuned to self,
Embracing the vast expanse of emotions when the month remains unsoiled.
Only then shall wonders befall... and
Unlock the tapestry of thoughts and mysteries within your mind.

remedies is not only for something we can't pass
remedies is for everything that has broken
or just to re-new something
-
she learns something from her life, everyday
but she never had a chance to write those down

it's not a scam when she said her favorite things to do are reading & writing or writing & reading
reading a poem or her self-diary
writing a poem or a self-diary
she doesn't know if is a gifts
or just a hobby
because everytime she finished wrote all her poems, she re-read it, and she thought all eyes those read her words can write it too (with their own version(s))

in this, not-so, new day(s)
herself will embarks to write all the tales where she's involved in

as long as she living her life
this era is the lowest point in her life
she doesn't know if it actually is, or it's just she made it all low

she can't even say a word to herself
she can't even write what's in her head
she can't even tell anyone when she really needs a person to talk
all are just mixed up in her little head


she doesn't know if it is something like "manifesting" or what
all she knows that she can't figure it out yet
is it something related to science? like human mind?
is it something related to religions? like human relations with The Creator?
but one from many answers for the solutions (based on her own researches) is self-improvement
she is pretty sure that is something wrong inside herself
something to be fixed
something that needs remedy
but her body & mind are not so sure what is that (or what are those)
her body & mind are still figuring out

it's not finished yet
it is still figuring how it needs to be stopped
it is still progressing
'it' is this story, her story, my story
..

Tomorrow,
I will be
a little bit bolder.
Spread my wings and fly.

Tomorrow,
I will be
a little bit stronger.
Soaring through the endless sky.

Tomorrow,
I will be
truer to who I really am.
Broken and bent, but beautiful.
No longer a lie.

You could change the world.
You should.
Repeat this inauspicious comment to someone;
Age isn't part of the equation.
Even the youth may listen, may remember,
I should change the world.
You did. Some place, at a time unknown.
It's not so obvious as the Butterfly Effect;
Appearing subtly, less noticeable than
Pedaling into a velvet N-E Huron breeze
A walker feels on her wet lips
During a burnt Autumn stroll.
I changed,
And rocked the world
Of  my loved ones.

one of these days, i'm going to write about how taking care of my heart
is a chore i wish i took more seriously.

every time i try to clear out the cobwebs inside my chest, i bump my head and shoulders into things hooked on its walls; knock my knees and toes into things stuffed in its nooks and crannies.
i would lay low and slowly
unpack the baggage i accumulated and start learning to compartmentalise,
unhang the skeletons of souls that have been chasing me in my dreams,
undogear the chapters that are done and dusted where you, like all the others, remain a metaphor, a foreshadowing, a symbol, a period that i thought would fit my lifelong sentence,
but that's a story for another day.

my obsession with hoarding memories like my life depended on it
has long been a problem
just like my system being an "organised mess"
— you and i both know, i am the mess.
until i can fold away my feelings from my past
and tuck away my thoughts about my future
to make sense of my present,
i will have to keep collecting these scattered words and phrases
waiting to be bound and sealed in a box somewhere.

one of these days, i'm going to write about how taking care of my heart
is a chore i took seriously
so that when it stops beating
it is full
and light
at the same time.

- 20200218