I'm not as soft as a swan gliding into the poet's lake. I'm not as graceful as a ballerina waltzing in the arena. I am not as calm as the trees attending to your whimsical needs. I am built on ruins; I am something that has been running for decades, and I still think about the house keys I abandoned near the forest; they open the portal to your house. It was my favorite.
I am full of words,
Rotten poetry,
Full of work,
Empty memory.
"I don't know what to write anymore," I whispered. I was a romantic maniac. In me were growing daisies and burnt coffees, orange juices and promised salvation.
It's a funny little detail; now, it's all mishaps and mishandled poetry.
Through the shallows and the shadows, I screamed in horror, and then I felt the mockery of longing.
as I age, I spend less and less reading books that will keep me at night until dawn. I am slowly forgetting how to form words, and my love for writing is nothing but a fond memory kept inside my favorite box. now, every poem that I write is just as empty as me; it’s lacking. it’s boring and awkward. it’s a dream I keep repeating on and on. it was once my favorite escapade, a heaven; now, it’s all nothing but frugal chaos.
it’s cruel, isn’t it? I was once promised a salvation. silly little me. my innocence’s gone.
it can never be regained. unless I stupidly long and yearn and long and yearn.
if not for nostalgia, I would not write anymore. but I was just a girl who happens to be a slave, and it hurts to be the one who remembers.