The soft murmurs
of deep repose
whisper to me,
a breeze across my shallow heart,

As I slip into blurred lines
between life and eternal rest.
The unruly yet calming
resonance blesses my weary eyes
with a tender kiss.

Above, clouds continue
to grace the sky,
and even then,
I can't seem to muster up
whatever resides within;

This tide of once pure emotion,
I now must learn to resist.

As I board the boat
of silent destruction and pain,
I watch it sail far away--
blurring into the haze of mist,
becoming one of the many stars
that may have shared the same fate.

The moon caught fire,
the warmth slowly seeping
deep into my awry, hollow veins.

But the only thing that could quench
it's ember-lit flames,
was my lovesick yearning
for you.

The stars are tears
shed by the Universe,
as it yearns for an ounce of solace
in the vast, empty place above
where it's accustomed to survive,

Despite an obscure reluctance
we've all grown too familiar with--
burden heavy on its shoulders,

In spite of young children
wishing upon it every time the moon ascends,
revealing its ephemeral, yet foolish glow.

Did you really have to change,
the moment I turned 11?

How the days we'd spend together,
suddenly turned into trying
to ignore each other
and screaming in the kitchen?

Maybe one day,
you'd see what I feel
and what I tried to convey.

How I drowned in my own thoughts
as a mere child,
while you were busy
fighting with mom,
or scrolling on the endless feed
your phone provides,
which hopes you rot.

I guess it wasn't for me to speak,
to tell you what it really meant
to raise someone,
or how to love properly.

But could I really blame you,
if that was all you'd seen as a kid?
passing on the poison given to you
that deepened the scars,
causing your unhealed wounds to bleed out,
while you knew nothing on what to do with it.

I didn't wish for anything grand
or the materialistic things
you ask me to be grateful for
I just needed you to understand.

To listen to me talk
about my day,
or ask me why I was upset
instead of yelling at me
to stop looking so annoyed and grey,
every waking moment.

You always make a point
to ask me why I changed,
from the sweet little girl you knew,
to whatever I've become now.
perhaps, did you ever stop to think--
why?

if you don't want a child
to grow up,
and become someone
what reason is there to raise it at all?

I suppose,
at one point in life
I'll learn to forgive you.

But all that comfort I yearned
and still do most of the time,
has yet to be returned.

It waits in the silent, dark place
between your anger and mine.

well, Dad,
did you really have to change?

The feeling of nostalgia is so foreign,
yet so wistfully timeworn.
like a photo of your ancestors
you've never met,

Or books written
in a once spoken language,
you cease to understand.

Such as a worn out toy,
that at one time brought joy
to a young child's heart.

Or the scent of a cherished candle,
kindling the remnants
of a distant, elysian land.

It's like a place you've never been
and will probably never be,
but the silent warmth it provides
is enough to put your weary eyes to sleep.

Reminiscing old, long-lost memories
that we once lived for,
is like pressing on bruises
that are not yet healed.

The bittersweet pain of our reverie,
seeks to mingle
with the weary, blurred lines
of the so-called 'peace'
we've come to accept.

Maybe it’s not the silence
or the yearning for what's long gone,
but the desire to at least,
for once, feel something
in this slow-burning,
hope-filled fever dream.