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Where are you?

I am in the middle. Of nowhere—of mislaid sanity. I am afraid of who I am becoming: lost in iliad.

Where the series of misfits and my miseries combined together; I am so lost. So broken—who am I becoming? Burning eyes, burning palms—they were showing tricks on me.

They were here. Watching me intently—they outgrow wings like a fallen angel: fallen from grace. Their eyes burning into mine—slowing ticking bombs, so I'd still have time—to feel every suffering, the state of my miserable hovel.

Where are you?

I am in the middle. Of being lost and being found. I am in the pilgrim of my dreams—a wayfayer in the desert.

"Where the shoreline meets and the horse howl at the water's coldness, I will find you there."

I am a tourist in the spot—where the light could not be found; as I walk and walk, I realized, this is who I am becoming.

To find you in the desert as a wayfayer—in different times: a traveler, ahead of time—a butterfly in the coming age.

A warrior in the cage; a threat to them: the shadows in the desert.

"Where the shoreline meets and the horse howl at the water's coldness, I will find you there."

To find you is to be lost.
To be found is to be miserable.
To be whole is to be broken.

And there yet, I found you.
Being lost means being found.
She is a lost soul.

She wonders, yet she still could not fathom the urge to be made whole again. And then she wanders, a soul thirsty for new beginnings.

She was looking down at the big city—they were so alive, heavy breathing's can be heard around; footsteps were rushing—smiles plastered on their faces, yet they were so alone.

They were made out of different stories—but there is only one thing they must find and feel, to be found and be whole. Besides, they were not so different—if she is a lost soul, what can hinder her to find her one true love?

And then there's him—he was made out of soft pillows, he was an another poem she's excited to read. He was an ink—giving another color to a blank page; he was a story she will never get tired of: to read.

She was so eager to see him every time. To feel him—to look at his heart; yet he was an almost to its completion—and then there's her, so broken—humiliated, hurt and blinded.

There's no space left for her. And then she wandered again. She tried so hard to forget him—she thought he was the one who will complete everything that is lost and broken; yet she was left with no other choice: to be a wandering soul, again.

Maybe she was made exactly like that—no other form of strings will tie the knot, other than herself.
Oh to learn how to love you.
Oblivious. To think that I was sentient, made me realize that I was, indeed nescient—to the void where it fills me; feeds me to my singularity.

A hole in my heart where I can taste all the madness fuming inside me—deep in my drowsy feeling, like I was nearly touching the ocean's loneliness: in the middle where the abyss lies.

Troubled mind I should say—I tried to understand but it led me to my consciousness; a stream where it's just a river that flows down, leading me to the void—whether it be in my mind or what I see in my eyes; that only my vision can handle—a peculiar feeling.

Find me in my stories. Where escaping will be of no problem—where I will narrate which I only can see. Where the darkness has gone to light; where the light has gone to darkness.

Both only my vision can see—which put me in neutral. Whether I choose or not, the Light will find me.

Find me in my stories.
I wrote this while listening to Black Star by Radiohead. It kinda helped.
You are the snowflake—

In the sunny afternoon
Where you slowly melts away—
Still, when I look at you,
Pure and clean
Like a waterfall.

Slowly—it crashes
The sound—
The continuous wave
Where the water's steep falls
And down
And deep
And beneath.

You are the snowflake—

In the winter of December
Where you slowly,
And slowly—turns into
A delicate sixfold symmetry

Where you were as beautiful
As white
And as pure—
Just like the winter—
Where the coldness,
Can be the comfort.

In every season
There's you—different from time to time;
Still, when I look at you,
You are as beautiful
As the weather—
Forecasted—bluer than the usual;

And when I look at you,
You will always be,
The snowflake that melts
In the sunny afternoon—
And a delicate sixfold symmetry
In the winter of December.
...and when I look at you, you will always be the snowflake that melts, that transforms, as white, as clearest among the rest.
When they leave a mark,
She grew—

She grew out of pain;
Even outgrew some hidden scars,
Find some golden jams—
Out of scars, she then find a hidden gem.

When they leave a mark,
She grew—

She grew out of empty promises;
She then began to realize the importance
of words—
the lack of it,
the mere thing that comes with it.

She then leaves a mark;
Some pain,
Some courses of her daily life—
Some parts of her—

Even when she did not become a part of theirs.

She then grew—
When they leave a mark.
we grow, we develop, we love, we leave traces of marks—some part of us.
In just a speck of dust,
Created in flesh and blood—

There we are,
Living in harmony;
Yet with empty songs
out of great destruction.

Crickets sang for mate—
Nature dance with waves—
People speak with words,
Yet with their voices,
We make masterpiece.

Humming with those tunes—
Flowing of rhythms; dry our bones,
Yet with just a speckle of dust—
We are made.

In just a speck of dust and dirt;

Created in flesh and blood—
In harmonies,
Thyself, is a masterpiece.
Thyself, is a masterpiece.
you are a masterpiece.
She was swaying and dancing with the waves—
she was just inhaling all the fears
and uncertainties—
she was just staring and letting
the cold water,
touch her bare feet.

The afterglow that lingers in her heart—
still finding that missing part;
where is it?
where can she find it?
It was the same waves
that made her awake
in the cushions
that piles around her feet—

It was so empty
that she couldn't
wouldn't
understand—
the feeling
the heavy breathing—
the suffocating anxiety that lies,
that stays—
circulating another form of comfort,
in her soul.

That is the curse at night—
it lingers,
it rings,
like a stupid annoying clock—
she couldn't destroy.
some thoughts.
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