life isn't a poem;
you don't choose to
stop
or start or
pick up where you left.
we do not hold the remote
or the pen
or the rope.
we hold on and we travel
with the wind.

Found my peace after twelve years
A life I will not get back but now I can move on
Anger, regret, have no hold on me
Today I start anew
For now I know what I am
True bliss feels hard to describe
Solace in the fact that I must die
And begin anew.

i was born on a Monday
all other details have been omitted for their irrelevance
unimportant in the way the morning dew could have clung to the humid trees crying impossibly from the heat
or that on that side of the world everything was brand new but ostensibly old to someone else
my nature doesn't allow me to believe in the mystical and even fate is a faraway dream that I only let myself cradle when I'm feeling particularly whimsical
like right after eating a suspiciously delicious fruit or the fizz from my carbonated drink still remaining even after two hours of sitting forgotten on my kitchen table
the stars do not dizzy me and the twirl that you tried so hard to perfect while spinning me did not sweep me off my feet
but it did garner a sort of appreciation for the way things are
the way they have always been and in that there are little instances of magic gone unnoticed
I was born on a Monday
a casual work day for anybody
routine and abundant
auspicious and careful even in the way I first opened my eyes to see those rays of sunlight I can't remember but know were there
behind a curtain or shrouded past a family of trees
permanent

after years of writing
I wonder how it started
I wonder how a feeling could be described
how a description being translated into words
how words led to paragraphs
how paragraphs are made into poetry

how different poems exudes different feelings
how can poet makes rhymes and sounds
how they restrict their beautiful words into a few lines
how a small happiness can relate to anyone who reads

I was amazed, impressed, dazed and awed
Shakespeare, Lang Leav, Pablo Neruda
the swirl of emotions, the slap on the face
a silent community; a place where your inner voice speaks
charmingly, a poet’s story lies beneath her poetry
poetically, they’ll take you to your deepest thoughts
making you nod in agreement

how it started; how did I start poetry?
hmm shall we reminisce?
it was a bittersweet past I wish to hold on
almost gave it up but then I found a new light
with a scalpel on my left hand, a pen on another
I intend to be someone who heals physically and emotionally