When pen doesn't reach paper.
I have nothing to say.
Peace has captivated me, and in it I will dwell.
It is like a gentle flowing river, soothing my soul.
Peace, Peace, Peace like a river.

people should die as they have lived
as a coward, a weakling
and the ice that melts after a breath's touch
the way i have to beg for your love
like how a dog begs for an ounce of attention from its owner
loving you was an experience i rather not forget
lonely is the heart, searching for a place to belong
it finds itself in a home, in the arms of someone that knows they do not belong
it embraces you gradually, crushing your dream slowly
suffocatingly knocking every breath out of your lungs
until it's too late, and you realised you're choking
but you don't know how else to breathe
so i accepted you lovingly, despite you killing me slowly
and now i can't live without you
no one understands you, at least thats what i thought until i met you
you don't understand me, you know me too well
you want me to become like you
no longer myself

always the child
who never got appreciated
just an unwanted child
trying her hardest
to be the perfect one—
just once.
trying her hardest
to be appreciated,
dying to hear:
“you did a great job,”
“the dish you cooked was very nice,”
“i’m proud of you,”
“you scored 98% in maths,”
“i’m proud of my daughter.”
she just wanted
to be loved.
to be seen.
to be appreciated.

The clock’s slow hands release their grip,
A whispered breath begins to slip,
Through corridors of fading light,
Where shadows stretch to meet the night.

The week’s tight chains dissolve in air,
Like molten glass that melts with care,
Each task undone, a thread unspun,
The loom of time undone, begun.

A tide that lifts the anchored soul,
Unfurls the sails toward the whole,
Where moments drip like honeyed rain,
And silence hums a sweet refrain.

The pulse of hours quickens now,
As freedom’s seed takes root somehow,
Beneath the skin, a quiet fire,
A spark of vast, unspoken choir.

No longer bound by duty’s weight,
The mind escapes its narrow gate,
To wander fields where dreams convene,
In Friday’s glow, serene, unseen.

The silence
is not deafening,
the flowers
are not listening
to my hushed soliloquy -
and so I speak;

I only ask for an ounce, but
I yearn for more bouts
of domestic felicity.
It's not some grand wish,
no mere flight of fancy -
only a gentle plea
for an interlude
from the monotone
blur of days.

At first, it sounds
so very twee:
layered harmonies
and classical strings,
like an echo of
Vivaldi's "Spring"

But Pomme asks,
"Pourquoi j’y pense encore?
Y a quoi de mieux avant?"
Why do I still think about it?
What was there
that was better before?

In an earlier verse,
I was slowly
singing towards
my dirge.