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Then she met the sun rising above the sky
superior to its servants, for 'tis the bright light
giving shelter to trees and flowers —
her morning is as rough as the dried sunflowers.

She ne'er-do-well at nights that seem to haunt her every time the moon arises from below —
the moon whom she hates when it strikes at six o'clock and the sun sets at five o'clock, she never gets the time to smile.

Tomorrow with her is never home.
A night with her could be considered as the curse.
From o'er the horizon, she looks up above, and scream, “Even songs I love I could not hear!”
Her little hymn and tones turned into lulla-byes—
a lullaby to good-bye.

“Tis the time to go home", she said, but what if night ne'er sets down and tomorrows turned ashes and good-byes?

When will she go home?
I just turned 20 a few days ago and this piece was made months ago haha. Hope you'll have a good day.
There he stood outside the windowsill—waiting for the wind
to whisper in her ears, his soft call of her name
heed the faceless man, there he stood, outside the windowsill.

Her soul awakens and her hand in her chin
fresh from the bathe of her blood—there Avernus,
faceless, standing outside her chamber—waiting for the woman to fall asleep.

The faceless man than wanting to reside by her side,
softly lulling her into death, prickling her thumb with a needle of life and death
through the parallel of his world and hers—there he stood waiting for his muse.

He grows slowly and deeply, his stomach churning—savoring
her blood in his mind, he waits until she falls asleep.

Her eyes wandered through the thin port outside her room—
The trees harshly peering through her window,
It is as if, they were telling dark tales in the midnight dawn of the night.
Avernus then sang in his native tongue; his muse terrified at the sight of him—yet there was
comfort between the wind and the chilly night outside her window.

“It’s cold outside, why are you standing there?” She called out.
Here comes a new poem. :)
“Flightless bird, American mouth..." She sang as she sways her curvy body in the middle of an empty room. I saw how she smiles at the thought of a man dancing along with her, I wish that was me.

The long hallways were as easy to stroll by—as I love feeling the paintings nailed on the wall, I once discerned the lovely voice I always want in my system. She was singing her favorite song again; "I was a quick wet boy diving too deep for coins..." I remember how it became my lullaby every time I could not fall asleep and I lay there, reminiscing every words, every note she is hitting, I remember how I can compare her to a painting. Where an art is a compliment by being in its unique state and at the same time, the bitterness of being complicated.

She was a painting, I could never outgrow of. She was a flightless bird, I am a side character who longs for her, who gazes at her swaying her curvy body back and forth—her lips tainted like grey clouds forming another rain. Her skin as rough as my palm sketching another art—her feet closer than the ground, neighboring with the coldness of the white marble tiles; I stood there longing for her. I stood there, raised my hand and waved through her direction.

Even when she could not see, she was my prized possession I will ne'er have.

She stopped and peaked at the door where I no longer stand and I breathed a sigh of relief—this time, it will never hurt to leave. I smiled, she will never know.

Her sweet dance in the empty room is what ruled in my head, she will never be gone out of my head.

...and now, I bleed for being lost without her. My flightless bird.
This is heavily inspired by the most legendary song there ever was, for me. 'Flightless bird, American mouth' by Iron & Wine
Mar 21 · 402
Curtains
The openness that the curtains were giving me
is terrifyingly peaceful —
the bundle of joy I felt when a little boy creeps in
and peeked through while his eyes roam around
and I gazed upon his hopeless dilated pupil.

Around the bushes outside, there are roses
blooming in the night — while his shirt has been struck like lightning laid his hands on him
and there were bloods sticking out his nose;
Ceased brows were heavily in my forehead
then I saw him enter my room with a knife
glued into his hands.

The eerie tic of my shivering body
must have given him the freedom to do the stabbing and I let him do that — closing my eyes
while I wait for him to shout and beg,
I kneeled down in front of him and let my tears get a hold of me.

"I must have left you on the cold, I apologize."
I said and he stabbed me right in the heart.
The little boy smirked while I lost consciousness and everything seems slow in motion — the colors began to fade and my mom suddenly swayed through the door.

The curtains are swaying back and forth and I woke up with a bliss.
There's a little boy outside.
Before you read this, you can listen to 'Bundle of Joy' by Jartisto.

This was inspired by the little boy I saw on tiktok. Anyways, it's been 21 days since I last posted. But, I was always checking this site. It's just the will I don't have. Happy reading.
How long will these enigma of misfortune can be carried out by
my hands—laid and lewd
shining with mud and uncertainty.

How long will the stones be put into pressure
to become the diamonds in the city—where known is familiar
and the unknown is discreet and mystical.

My head throbs with excruciating pain—it can be called as emptiness, a glass without water,
whom the sound shrieks like death is coming.

Into broken pieces of the diamond city—I have felt the pressure, the innate madness of forsaking the world and the world knowing my limits and the little shadow that keeps me company beneath my bed.

How long, oh, how long will these enigma of misfortune be laid out in my grumpy hands—in between secrets and opportunities.

How long, to be an artist?
Another crisis, another piece.
Feb 15 · 578
Dawn in May
If I tell you, my muse,
how I long for your presence
amid the desert in the crack of dawn —
would you saunter by and stay
until these wounds be in silence
and covered by your unpredictable peace,
will you stay?

My muse, when I write you, no name
no shade, no face — a beauty with only
a mere part of your body in a physical dimension
of my story, with you here, I feel
the sense of belonging
the unknown familiarity,
take a plunge, face the mirror —
I am there, I am there.

You were born in May,
in full moon by the seaside.
You were crying melodies
and the current flow of the waves,
carried you to me, in reality, in dream,
in song, while your face
soft and maiden for what I saw in your eyes.

The past, the future,
how you brought comfort —
while my book stays there, in draft,
in awe of you, my muse.

This is how I celebrate the month of May,
where are you muse?
come and take a look in your creator —
I am here, I am here.
Wrote this for my muse! Hope you'd give this love since it's hearts' day! Bless your pen now and keep writing, writers!
Jan 24 · 892
The Bride of the Moon
Intensely, I traced his steps until he met
my eyes, the only gaze I welcome
with a reflection
of light, grey and hue of
excruciating colors—to serve
his mightiness in the forlorn night—
through the fields and the city,
everyone is following him.

Their mouth agape in the sight of
his face peering at his brides—in weeping, in despair, in all forms of wrath—hope and madness.

The moon creeps in the black of the night—with his voice lulling as a whisper, faint like a finger softly lingering its hands on the piano—
through the perilous scheme of the midnight dawn.

He then wept with his brides and kneeled down in front of me.
His linen gown and fur coat covering his silver body and his eyes shriek with only a weeping melody.

He faced me and my heart sank at the sight of him,
“My bride, how come you are facing such a horrible nightmare?”

He said and held my hand,

“Artemia, I am broken by the man whom I love so dearly. I faced death, inferiority, dreamless sleep, and my heart crawled out of my body,”

“Darling, you are a bride of the moon and a man will only love you if they get blinded by the light, and such us, we are the daughters of the night. A man who is in love with the moon, is out there waiting for you.”

He then walked away, faced another midnight with his bride gleaming with hope in the forlorn night, with the light, grey and hue of excruciating colors.

There, I saw how he turns into the god of the night.
I've been seriously keeping up with life that I have forgotten to post every week... I feel incomplete and empty. But, here I am posting another piece I made while I was at work.

Hope you will read this at your own pace.
Jan 3 · 742
An Old Vintage Soul
Slow, steady, and unhurried steps of her feet that almost floats in the air — while her body lies
on the couch of her old apartment. Her apparition was lost on the airy night of December.

Her feet turned cold and weary, her breath smells like fury and her heart grew solid and unsteady. It beats just the sound of the drum rolling, her pulse radiates of fear, and her lips shut and dry. She turned around and her body keeps still and sounds asleep. As if, it was a normal night and just and peaceful.

She flew right through the door and stroll around the street of Evergreen. It was silent and streetlights turned off. It was smokey and dark. The pavement seems boring and bleak—her dress swayed and the cold air seemed welcoming to her chest. She passed by several houses and happened to find a bookshop. It was vintage and awkward. Its structures did not seem appealing nor look like someone owns them. But she manages to get past through it and books welcomed her—like how ghosts welcome their favorite strangers.

She passed by some old and modern books, carefully slipping her tender fingers to its hardcovers, flipping through endless pages, and breathing the dusty nostalgic aroma of the '90s. “It never gets old,” she says. She flips and flips, flies through the stairs, and find more pages. Circles all the important words, digesting all the heartfelt quotes—this has been her dream.

Suddenly, the lights filled the room, her eyes closed and her heart is racing through her pulse. An unknown hand grabbed her and pushed her to the wall. “Who are you, young lady?” Said the man with a gritted teeth.

Slowly, the woman opened her eyes, and there in front of her revealed a young man with hazel eyes and the smell of strong coffee in his mouth. His aromatic smell of vintage soul and modern scheming look. She dared not to speak but the man in front of her just pinched her pulse hard and peered at her.

She dared to look at him, and they both just stared at one another.

“I- I just want to read books,” she pouted. And the man avoided her face.

“But this place does not exist anymore.” He cleared his throat and loosened his grip on her.

“I- I'm just traveling by,” she added.

“I know. I am too.” He said, avoiding her gaze.

“You're an apparition too?” The woman asked. And she waited for a proper response but he just gazes upon the empty shelf around her.

“To go back,” He whispered.

“Are you the owner?” She asked once again, hoping she will get an answer from a stranger.

“Go home or I might do something you will not like.” He turned to her and gawked.

The woman sighed and went home with questions and strange memories she did not know she has.

It was the second night of December and she floats in the air. Passed by several houses and went to the old bookshop. She continued reading books and the man found her again. But this time, he was silent and cleaning around the area. The woman smiled and tried to talk to him.

“What is your name, young man?” She asked. The man froze and stood there, stiff. She laughed and did not expect an answer. Rather, she went upstairs and kept reading.

“John,” He held out his hand this time, formally acknowledging her presence.

“Emilia,” She smiled. Both of them spent the night reading books and talking about modern literature...And philosophy.

On the third day of December, she did not wake up through her apparition. Instead, she woke up with a soul, feet's touching the ground, and a face that is mirroring her reflection through the mirror. She exhilaratingly went out to find the bookshop, passed by several houses but did not found where the place was. She went back to her old apartment and tried to locate the bookshop.

However, it was only an empty lot she found when she tries to find it by heart and soul. The disappointment was evident on her face and her heart beats rapidly—ceased brows and lips shut tightly.

“John?” She whispered.

“John?” She calls him out again, hoping he'd hear her.

She steps into the burnt-out place. It was only an empty lot with wild grasses scattered and a tombstone lying there, in dust. It was named after Emilia Blythe. Suddenly, a familiar arm hugged her from behind. It was John, and her tears swelled around her eyes—while her heart ache and memories flooded her mind.

“I couldn't save you back then, Emilia, so I went back from the past and live in my dream to see you.” He whispered with comfort and longing.

“It's not your fault, John. I am sorry I forgot about you.” She cupped his face and peck him on the forehead.

“We can work this out and live forever in my dream.” He said with pleading in his eyes.

“But I am only a fragment of your imagination, John. You can let me go. It's not your fault,” Emilia said with conviction.

“I am just a vintage soul, a wayfarer amid the longing dawn and I am a fragment of your imagination. This place exists but it's all in the past now, you can let me go,” She added and let go of his hands.

“Wake up, dear.” She bid him her last goodbye.

John woke up with his heart racing and hopeful eyes. The people around him gathered and created strange noises in which he got confused, he opened his eyes and saw familiar faces around him.

“Thank God you're awake!” An elderly woman hugged him and kissed his face.

“It's a miracle you woke up after five years, son.” He remember his Father's voice and held his hand.

“Where's Emilia?” He asked, hoping he'd get an answer.

“She's gone... Remember?” Her mother broke the silence.

“Like 10 years ago, son.” She added.

He went back to the old bookshop, where Emilia was there. He traces all the books she touched and flipped through the pages where she left.

It was old and aromatic. It was vintage yet modern. The good thing was, his parents renovated the bookshop while he was sleeping for 5 years. He went upstairs and found the section where Emilia was always staying. He scanned all the books and touched every single page of them.

He flips through the pages and found a quote there, it was written with a bleak ink,

“We will meet again,


your old vintage soul”

He smiled and ripped the page out, then the door clicked and the bell rang. He immediately went downstairs and greets the woman in front of him.

“Can I borrow books from section 5-” The woman was cut off when John hugged her. Her face was confused and red.

“Emilia?” He whispered.

“Uh, I'm Emily,” She awkwardly answered.

John laughed and gave her an apologizing look.
“You look like someone I know,” He said.

“Sorry,” He added.

“No worries,” Emily answered with a half-smile.

And they both smiled at each other.
Enjoy reading!
Dec 2020 · 821
A Story Without Ending
Coleen Mzarriz Dec 2020
My mouth widened its passage to yawn out the drowsiness,
in my dizzy mind and endless tickling of my eyes closing—
while I still fight for my consciousness to live,
while she was out there playing fire with the rain.

Where the time goes back and she meets me from the tree of souls,
from her tears there comes a glimpse of tomorrow, and from her black silky hair,
there comes a defying gravity
of sleep and reality.

I once entered a door of hope—where the dead sleeps and live
from heavenly green pastures,
trees alive and birds whistling
a great melody of harps
and angels' tune,
there I saw her—and the time stops,
the bell rang, the place filled with the tricky lights,
from the tree of souls,
there is one key that holds the glimpses of yesterday and tomorrow.

I yawned out the momentum of my blissful sleep
waking up from a deep heavy dream,
the clock ticked, the trees danced, the winds hustled, and
I danced on the curtains of life.
I kept a straight face and distanced myself
from the harmony it brings,
my body sways and my voice sang
a melody with an unfamiliar tune,
my heart swelled and I saw her.

She slowly stride her feet and welcomed me her arms, while I let out the tears
and cry crystal diamonds, wiped it with her swollen hands—
she let out a laugh I am longing to hear,
“It will be over, I promise.”
Finally! I was able to finish this short poem. It's been stuck with me for almost 3 weeks and I am glad I was able to post it now :)

Happy holidays, people! Thank you for surviving this year. I am proud of you. :))
Dec 2020 · 761
Breathe in the Water
Coleen Mzarriz Dec 2020
The intense surge of the cold waves seeped in through my bones. It lingers and its bitterness was too rigid in my tongue. Breathing in the water was shallow, closing my eyes so I can swallow the saltiness it gives—the oxygen to breathe.

No thoughts, only an empty head with choking memories of an angel saving a lost sheep—in the vast ocean where the blue seems acquainted and welcoming to strangers. The moment I was out of the water, I still cannot breathe.

Did the ocean hear my longing? The angel's face was like a bottle of old wine, tastes bitter in one's mouth. His wings were heavy, flying through the midnight sky—his face soften as he gazes upon my merciless eyes. I turned away not wanting to lock eyes with him—for the sky forbidden me to taste him.

He was an old wine, living through the dusty shelf to be displayed—when it is his time, his light shines and his wings were like bitter snow, swaying across the lonely sky—his lips a pink-colored cloud and his skin as white as the velvety mists surrounding us.

He then turned to me and said, "I will be your water to breathe from," and gave me the most genuine kiss to breathe from the dryness of my mouth. And tears scattered along the lines of my ceased brows, the satisfaction, the mystery of this longing—the space from where I can breathe again.

The drunken eyes that were staring straight into my core regained his broken wings and I fell right through the deep waters. I closed my eyes, for soon he will fly through the whole universe, and I will be the stranger who saved him.

I breathed in the water, giving me a sense of satisfaction, an old friend of memories swayed along the waves and the coldness it gives, a bittersweet vice and a comforting thunder from which it is like a song. I fell and fell 'til I was in the middle of just drowning; somehow it feels warm and good.

His face flashed right in front of my eyes. His goodness, how he tastes, how I long for him—how mysterious his eyes were. How he is an old friend of grace and death disguised as an angel.

How I can breathe in the water and through his lips. Somehow, I am not a stranger to this place.
I wrote this last November but then life happened and I'm stuck editing two more short stories. I hope I gave this one a satisfying ending.

I hope that you're staying safely and be kind to everyone around you. I love everyone of you and keep writing!!

Song I got inspired to: Wine by Clara Benin
Nov 2020 · 630
Repetition
Coleen Mzarriz Nov 2020
I once saw a deer passing by
its eyes intriguing and delicate —
he was walking unhurriedly while the lights
behind him swerve and dance pokily
while I gather my hands to touch him,
he turns around and ran away.

I once saw a shadow passing by
its being brought chills to my bones —
he was walking behind me, unhurried
while there was no light dancing around us
even the winds stopped breathing;
until I remember, he was me.

I once saw a man passing by
its presence gave me comfort and light
he was running away —
I asked him, “Where are you going?”
He answered, “To the future,”
I smiled and turned to him, “Let's go,”
He held my hands and we both ran together.

I once saw a mirror echoing back at my voice
its existence drove my mind and broke
into tiny pieces — while I go bewildered and
do not know what to do, he laughs and shatters
into fragile broken pieces,
he cries out and I ran away.

I saw the deer passing by
its eyes gentle and noble —
he steps and steps,
until he was facing me
behind him was the lights that stopped dancing
and the wind hustled a great bone-chilling harsh cold,
“You can remember now?”

He asked, “Yes,”
I told him and ran away
to the future, I come and all the shadows and mirrors broke and moaned a great pain.

I remember him now.
Life goes on by BTS.
Nov 2020 · 465
Sometimes
Coleen Mzarriz Nov 2020
With heavy breaths and lonely hiccups
empty cups
and busy filled streets
of few steps walking
not minding the world's sharp eyes.

Sometimes,

with a free bargain in one's shoulder
to carry on with the clouds and the sunny day while
the sun smiles at you.

Sometimes,

it is with the rain that gives a heavy sack filled with empty bargains, once,
at the vile winter
while spring day comes for a long time.

Sometimes,

it is without a sound
that one's self creates a melody and a song
exposed to the world's naked eyes
and it is with the heavy breaths that you can continue,

sometimes.
"Life goes on. Let's live on."
Nov 2020 · 485
The Blue Oak Tree
Coleen Mzarriz Nov 2020
When time passes and the strings
of her branches
harden from its spot —
life continues to go on.
Even when the music stops playing,
time never quit its soliciting
bids for tragic goodbyes.

The blue oak tree stood tall
while her leaves falling out in Autumn
and a forlorn hymn plays around her —
time is crucial and the world a rhetorical
place of wisdom and grief.

She stood there everyday
in stories and legends —
her body art of desecration
with letters carved unsent,
she stood there, still.

The blue oak tree
danced on the mist of the sky —
the clouds swished its billowy mass
“life continues to go on”
it passes, with certain reasons
and uncertain excuses;
the blue oak tree
keep dancing in stillness.

The song stopped and
she stood there,
hardened her branches
while her leaves keep falling out
in Autumn,
and the wind in stillness —
there, she stood in years,
without a song, without a trail of dance,
without a life.

The blue oak tree died
while her body is used as an art of unsent letters.
Writing this while I go home from work at 4 a.m.
everythingoes by RM was an inspiration when I wrote this.
Oct 2020 · 324
City Lights
Coleen Mzarriz Oct 2020
Stolen stares as she passed by
the city lights and countless hues of
shadows departing by the cars slowing down
and fast — she can recognize and she can sense their beings.

Though there was some music playing back and forth,
she can still hear the gasp and woes of these
shadows passing by the cars slowing down
and fast — ghosts of the buried.

The road is brisk and dismissive with the vivid pigments
of the city lights and the moon following every pace, even then the shadows keep on following her,
telling her to confess a sin
she hid so well — of buried and of a song
she wants to sing.

These ghosts keep on following her
in the city lights, they show their faces
and hid their remorse,
for she will be one of them soon
if she will not sing
her favorite song now.

She took out her notebook and penned
a note — of a deadly sin she must confess
to an angel and let it fly across his way
for she must live in freedom soon
and sing her favorite song.

In the same city lights,
there sat the man
of whom she loves, once was a ghost of the past
of buried regret and woes — maybe then if he
composed his song, ’tis then he will be free.

In the city of lost forbidden lights, there are two ghosts
passing by the cars slowing down and fast —
blind senses and dying requests to angels
for maybe then, they will be free from the burial
of the dead.
This is where lost lovers confess their sins.
Coleen Mzarriz Oct 2020
Dear Courtney,

“My dress was soaked with the slippery wetted road in Mayhem. I thought I was parading with the other women here. Yet, I escaped this hell of a home. I cannot wait to see you again. I am on the train 25 and the bay was bluer than the usual. The clock strikes at 12 in the afternoon. The sky was breathtakingly painted in the canvas with the clouds' fur orbiting each other.

I sat here, while the greens, I cannot take my eyes off. It was a first time for awhile, but it was always nostalgic with you here. The trees stood there, and the train moving in its monotonous pace. This time, I am thanking this train for its urgency. Maybe, he wants us to see each other again. Just you wait, Courtney. Tomorrow, we will see each other again.

It's dawn and the morning breakfast was here in front of me. It is a complete set. Just like what you like. Tea, toasted bread, egg and tomato. Ah, I thought I saw you sleeping here beside me. Am I doing it again? Wait for me, dear friend, for I will see you now.

There the trees and the mountain facing me. The scenery is telling me a story. A memory of you and me. Ah, dear friend, it is almost evening. I hope you're thinking of your friend here while you're taking a sip of your wine.

The train stopped and I am here now, Courtney. I hope this letter reaches you, dear friend.”


“She's really a writer, huh?” The nurse said while she reads me Cordelia's letter. I nodded and smiled.

“How was she?” I asked. The lump in my throat was heavy that I could not breathe.

“She's resting peacefully in the bay of Mayhem, Courtney.” The nurse then held my hand.

“Do you think she's happy?” I asked her again.

“Hon, her eyes will give you life. Of course, she is.” She kissed me on the forehead and pushed my wheel chair.

“You will have life again, Courtney. I will see you after the operation.”


My dress was soaked with the slippery wetted road in Mayhem. I thought I was parading with the other women here. Yet, I escaped this hell of a home. I cannot wait to see you again. I am on the train 25 and the bay was bluer than the usual. The clock strikes at 12 in the afternoon. The sky was breathtakingly painted in the canvas with the clouds' fur orbiting each other.

“Thank you for your eyes.” I whispered and tears began to well up. The wind hustled and the trees hurried to drop its leaves out.

I took out my notebook and pen. I wrote how the scenery by the bay gave me comfort.

Cordelia, I hope this letter reaches you.
I hope this touches your soul. Have a great day/night
Oct 2020 · 322
The Little Bookish Girl
Coleen Mzarriz Oct 2020
I feel like if I were to pick out life choices, it would be me, as the little bookish girl.

Beside me stood a young oak.
Although I'm looking at him,
he swirled his branches
and his body cracked
to encourage me to enjoy the leaves falling
that would drop out —
in the midday of October.

I picked the book,
thoroughly flipping the pages
while I lick my lips
tuck my hair out;
peered on the white sandy sky.
Lit up the spark in my heaving chest —
in beneath those pages.

I wonder, though,
is life all inside the book?
While I flip through the portal,
why do I keep on walking
the same road
if an anonymous poet
wrote in his book
that a man shall not follow
one's path?
But their beliefs and energy
that goes beyond
and falls in deep?

Then a dead crow suddenly
rocked its way through me
while its side bitten and decaying,
the distinction I have with its life,
brought me back to these pages —
and words scrambled;
alive and beautiful.

I feel like if I were to pick out life choices, it would be me, as the little bookish girl.

At midday in October, once, there was a girl. Her hair swayed and leaves rushing to get her attention — the little bookish girl was alive again for a while.
We've all been dreaming to feel and live like this. Now, read that book and wander. Wander through those portals and write.
Oct 2020 · 516
Shadows in the Tree
Coleen Mzarriz Oct 2020
There the moon gliding its light to guide her slipping away — and the shadows in the tree stalked her soulless grumbling footsteps.

Cricket's music calmed her heart. The immense outcry of the branches woke the parallel of the Dead Tree amid the black forest. Even the wilderness turned cold when she steps afoot. Her sight gone and her heart is pretentious to the music of the lonely shadows. “Come here, dear, for you must set yourself free.”

It was from the parallel — the ones whom the living bodies buried and forgotten. The sandcastle was falling away. The shadows almost struck her red knitted dress and begging her to come. But she was finding her way — a princess lost in the deep. To fall away, to be shot by a bullet straight into her heart. To be gone, and to sing her last breath.

She murmurs to the shadows in the tree, even when she could not make out her way, she steps, and steps. Until she fell into the deep hole and woke up, she was in a coffin. The loud cries of the people surrounding her — while she was being buried alive. She sang her last breath, then, the shadows beneath her held her body.

Until they were in the sandcastle. The ones that fall away in endless sorrow and death. Maybe then, she belongs as a soulless spirit to never be content in the living dead.

There the moon gliding its light to guide her slipping away — and the shadows in the tree stalked her soulless grumbling footsteps.
I'm not confident in writing this. But I hope someone will appreciate this piece.

Have a goodnight/good day
Sep 2020 · 393
Dead on Arrival
Coleen Mzarriz Sep 2020
I.
When I was born
I was dead.
In her womb I was bloodless.
It was Saturday—
and the moon was full.

II.
Summer nights
became a desert
the child in me—
was a gatekeeper.
All that was left,
'til now I was dead.

III.
I grew apart
and my heart has swollen
'tis now I found I was fallen—
oh, my heart bleeds for me
when will I not be forsaken?

IV.
Hymn.
It was tingling
the music of a bell;
is my time here short?
The child in me grew apart.
All that was left,
gone by a swift of a wind.

V.
Tomorrow might be
the last breath I breathe
'til now I was dead—
in the hearse I am alive.

By the striking of the moon, gone of me was the child in her womb.
Writing this makes my heart calm for a bit. Writing is such a healing place for all writers. I hope you write one today.
Sep 2020 · 633
The Winter and the Sea
Coleen Mzarriz Sep 2020
My feet wandered into
the serene shoreline
while the strong waves
hushed my cacophonic mind —
I strummed my fingers and gripped
tightly of my conch.
While my lips brushed around
its spiral shell — as I whispered my wishes
and blow through,
suddenly an angel
flew by and swiveled —
his wings burning.

From the heavens, he falls
right through the deserted sea.
My naked feet began to push
its life towards him —
he lies on the sand and his wings burning through.
Silhouettes of him rang on my mind;
gashes of water fell
through my eyes —
and whilst even the silence
grieved for us.
His burning wings calmed the strong winds —
the winter sea began to calm its strident waves
as I let myself lie awake beside him.

I closed my eyes and the replicas
of myself flashed through like a
candescent wind —
and there I saw a woman
lying in the hospital bed.
The sun mirroring the artificial light
through the windowpane;
the man standing beside her
had his wings folded —
and his eyes cold as the winter
and the woman dying in her
tranquil sleep.

The trees had fallen its last leaves,
and the winter is coming at dawn.
The man covered my eyes and I was at the
winter sea again —
“Mona, you will die in winter.”

And I woke up.
It was September.
I hope you can give me feedback about this poem. You can comment!

P.S you can also criticize this!

SONG: Sea Change - Stephan Moccio
Sep 2020 · 1.2k
The Future is Ours
Coleen Mzarriz Sep 2020
The whistle of the winds
and the scattered leaves gathering
into the air breeze of November
while the music of the cricket's song
lull her away into sleep.

For tomorrow's morning, uncertain.
Her soft silky hair danced on the waves
of the trees;
and its leaves singing with the wood nymphs —
the road is busy with the cars passing
and the pavement's slipping.

“The future is ours.”
She said —
with her chest heaved.
The small droplets of the rain
felt by her skin
as she closed her eyes,
the meaning of her vision
stuck through her.

While tomorrow's may be uncertain —
but the future is hers alone.
Roaring thunders woke her
into a moment of bliss.
The once starless sky
is now filled with the trinkets
of destiny's creation —
maybe in this night alone,
her wishes came true.

That the future is hers alone.
It is uncertain to think of our future. But, let us remind ourselves that the future is ours, alone.
Sep 2020 · 608
A Winter Letter
Coleen Mzarriz Sep 2020
“...and then there's you.”

Sprinkle dust of snow
where the sun shines out of nowhere
the sky is hidden in gray and blue —
and stars shying away
from anyone's view;
while the clouds enormous fur
comforting children's warm coats,
and then there's you.

A friend of the darkness
while the piano's hauling
away aggressively —
pointing fingers across
the silhouettes
and making tunes out of the horizons.
While you make them into a song —
and the winter is drawing nigh.

The universe glancing at its children
on a warm fuzzy clothes
and shadowy smokes
on a cold cobblestones
they walk barefoot,
and the fireplace lit up —
whilst even the shadows freeze to death.

And then there's you.
A winter solstice
with your name tattered —
almost hidden and vulnerable
a memory away.
A nostalgic phenomenon
to not be remembered —
to bury on together
like polaroids hidden in a cabinet.

...and then there's you a cosmic figure,
breathing shadow in the winter.
Here's a poet's letter for every young dreamer in the winter.

P.S it's more dramatic when u play 'As We Fall In Love Again' by Joy-Meyer Williams
Aug 2020 · 468
An Untitled Song
Coleen Mzarriz Aug 2020
If vivid dreams can flee away
in a moment of time,
if the future is unknown
in the dreamer's heart,
and if an untitled song
gets finished —
that must be the calling
of the void's voice.

If a song turns into poetry
if an art turns into a priceless liberty
and if the voice of the void —
finds a dreamer's dream
slipping away,
then mornings
can break away.

If falling means
getting up —
if drowning means
dying —
and if dreaming
means hoping —
then an untitled song
will soon have its name.
This is one of my favorites. My dream was to publish my own book—I don't care if it won't sell. I just want my own physical book.

But hearing my favorite band called BTS to keep dreaming and to keep going, then I will dream again and again.

Until I get tired. Until I fall again.
Until I stand up again.
Aug 2020 · 936
Empty Endings
Coleen Mzarriz Aug 2020
“You know why am I always scared? It's because when you feel happy at the exact moment, that is when empty endings occur.” He breathlessly spoke in the air.

Endings, happiness, and emptiness. Those three words I hated. It haunted me. I was gazing upon it, and the next words written on the wall was, "I must survive it." It was a familiar one. I traced every letter written on it, and it was like remembering how he wrote it, and how he fell upon it.

He could've survived it.
If it wasn't for me.

Scattered petals were surrounding me. The wheezing winds from the windowsills embracing my already gnawing body—my eyes wandered the old house. My eyes fixated, on the dried drops of blood, on the empty sofa he always sits in. Where we always tell each other's carpe diem.

If I didn't leave, will I make a difference?
If I didn't let the monsters win, will I be able to stay?

“Do you want to know the answer?” An old lady patted me on the back.
It sent chills down my spine. Her voice sounded as cold and barren.

“Who are you?” My voice began to shake. I took two steps backward, but she keeps drawing nigh. Who is she?

“Do you want to know the answer? She repeated. How did she found out?
“I don't know what you are talking about!” Then, I ran in the other direction.

I woke up and it was on the 5th of May when mornings are cold and grey. I flinched when I saw his back, asleep. “I was just dreaming,” I whispered. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Just when I was about to open it, he groaned and stood.

“J-Jack?” I called him. My raspy voice echoed throughout the room, but he didn't even budge and walked out of the room. I followed him and my hands reached him, yet it passed through him. Just what in the world is happening?

I tried several times to touch him and even cupped his face, but I was a ghost passing through his body, and the sudden thought flashed through my mind that I remembered the old lady.
“What did you do?!” I called her, but no one is answering. What am I suppose to do?

The rush of waters coming from the faucet overwhelmed my ears and I saw him lying in the bathtub—his eyes were bloodshot red and his wrist was full of scars; his body weight fell and his face's swollen.

I sat beside him and rummaged his hair, even though I could not hold him, yet my coldness reached through him that he flinched and met my eyes.

“Shh... I am here, I am here.” I whispered. He closed his eyes and dipped his face in the bathtub. Adrenaline rushed through me, and my screams were almost a whisper. I threw out the chair, and that caught his attention.

I ran and found a marker lying in the table. I went back and wrote “Helen is here” on the wall. I peered at his direction and saw his stunned expression.

“He-Helen?” His hoarse voice sent chills down my spine. I wrote “Yes” on the wall and sat beside him.  “Don't do it again, Jack” I wrote again.

Then, I woke up.

The first thing I saw was the old lady sitting at the edge of my bed. She was intently staring that it pierced through my core. Then, her expression changed—it was now a soft one, and she flashed a genuine smile.

“You did great, Helen. You must find the answer, yourself.” She said and vanished.

I looked up and it was on the 5th of May again. And Jack was walking up to the door—I followed him until he passed by the Bridge of Adelaine. If I stop Jack when he was drowning himself, then I must find a way to stop his death.

The old lady may be giving me chances to change the course of Jack's past. To save him from dying on the 5th of May.
But the problem was, there were no walls or things I can use to stop him. How will I save Jack?

“His mind...” The old lady's voice echoed through my mind.

His mind... What about that? I asked her again, but she didn't answer.

Yes, his mind! Panic registered through me when he already was standing on the other side of the bridge and I closed my eyes and found his still mind—yet so dangerous.

“Jack, stop it!” I screamed. But he wasn't listening.
“I said stop it!” I repeated but he wasn't listening.
Then I remembered something—something in the past we both held on to whenever we have bad days.

“You know why am I always scared? It is because when you feel happy at the exact moment, that is when empty endings occur.” I spoke, my voice cracking.

His face flashed a hint of surprise and looked around. Then he saw me, he saw through me.

“Helen?”

It was on the 5th of May again. I immediately roamed around and saw myself passing through the walls of this empty hospital. I found myself looking for his room, and I opened the door.
He was lying there with IV fluids inserted into one of his veins.

“Helen...” He called out.

“I'm here,” I whispered, and cupped his face. He smiled and looked at me.

“You can see me?” I added.

“Yes,” He replied.

“You know, I will always be your hero. Remember that. I will always save you, Jack.” Then I kissed his forehead.

“This is why I don't want to be happy, I know you will leave me again, Helen.” He spoke in silence.

“Then I will always come out of the grave, to save you then.” I grinned, and we both laughed.
I accidentally wrote this story, and guess what? I enjoyed writing for the first time. Also, for the first time, I wasn't insecure.
Happy reading
Aug 2020 · 271
Helena's Song
Coleen Mzarriz Aug 2020
I.

She was there.
Wearing her favorite sweater
while she was hoping
to get her life —
beaten like a raw egg
then I made this song,
about Helena.

II.

“So long and goodnight,
So long and goodnight.”
I hummed —
gently touching her cold face
when the chrysanthemums
she holds;
brought me back to her
and the rain pours.
Her unkempt hair —
her cold swollen hands;
her eyes as dead
as the digging hearse
rushes —
into her,
I made this song.

III.

“When the star falls,
I'll be holding on tonight
if I stay, would it make a difference?
Well, carry on
don't sleep,
hear me and stay.”
I strum in the strings of
yarns weaving
the ropes of life
attached — while she dances
barefoot and reckless.
'Til I come running —
and her faint breath, gone.

IV.

This is the last verse of the song.
When slowly the sun
yet to rise again,
piercing through
her damp soul,
I sang the last piece
and wore a vintage smile,
after her last fainting breath —
she heard the song.
Helena sold the pieces of her soul.
I've always been fascinated by the name, Helena. I wrote about her twice. You can check out my short story, 'The Aroma of Her Crimson's Blood' here.

P.S Listen to Helena by My Chemical Romance
Aug 2020 · 309
The Gift of Chaos
Coleen Mzarriz Aug 2020
My eyes were traipsing all across the room — my irked nose was lined with all its corroded details and the charred foul smell of blood. Where my hands firmly cradled and the sky peeking through the cracked window passes, am I hopeless?

"Just call my name on the edge of the night," My ears wobbled in the melancholy raspy voice of a man telling me from before he faded away. I remember him grinning and caressing the tip of my nose, yet I couldn't open my pursed lips.

"Call me and I'll run to you," His voice erupted throughout the house, it is like his plump lips meeting my ears' tips.

"I- I really can't!” I whispered. You are too far, Sky.
I let my eyes wander its blurry sight through the starless horizon from which the eclipse is striding into the darkness. The moon serenading the hurricane, and the gusts of wind whistle and spin — blowing chill bumps through my bones.

Rapidly, a familiar sensation surged through my body — my eyes fixed to a spot where I was in the center of the forest, where the flowers bloom as I saunter by. I traced my fingertips and remembered that he pulled the flower and ended up dead on his bare fingers.

“You know that whatever you touch, it dies.” A faint chuckle I let out. He gazes his eyes into mine — penetrating through my soul — allowing me to drown in his mirrorless eyes. Giving me a new illusion of myself — securing me of a sacred paradise.

The thunder roared like a thirsty lion, he held my hand, and slowly, he vanished and burned into grey ashes.

Where the sky contains a fraction of truth and the heavens got a hold of time, where the underworld brings chaos and chaos grant powers to the mortals.

Where he is Sky, eventually named after Death. Where he is mine and there in him: lies after the present time. Where neither gods nor goddesses can intervene. Where I could no longer call him, Sky; only his remainings I could hang on to.

I closed my eyes and waited for the downpours of the rain.

When there is chaos, there is still time.
When questions remained unanswered, there is the sky, awaits your call.
When there is existence, there's him, the Death.

The gift of chaos is the heavenly realms.
The past.
The present.
The future.
The memories.
The lost.

And then, there, I locked my eyes with him and like a phoenix, where my soul greedy for freedom —and him the Death of the mirrorless sky.
Been occupied for the last weeks and I could not bring myself to write!

P.S Listen to 'Run to You' by Lea Michele when you read this. :)
Aug 2020 · 334
Garden of Arcady
Coleen Mzarriz Aug 2020
Unknown souls reside
in the most deserted places—
such as the minds of the Parallel;
the hearts that bear the rebellion
and the agonizing shadows that stalk
behind the familiar faces.

Where the souls whom we do not know—
finds places in the garden-like of Arcady
its rustic magnificence and endless streams.

The whitest marbles that mirror the true form
of one's self—
the sculptures of liberty and honor
enchanted voices of wood nymphs
that serenades every heart's frightened—
and harmonious hands clasping together—
souls traded their bodies for a one-way ticket;
this is where the last train stops.

The mind seeks for the Parallel—
when a desire craves,
it reaches down to the deepest pit—
from where the tree reaches down to the lowest ground,
should its own branches reach the tallest clouds?

Behind the rushing blood
of spirits being awakened—
should the deserted soul
stride its feet in the garden of Arcady?
“In each of us, there is another whom we do not know.” Carl Jung
Coleen Mzarriz Aug 2020
There he goes—
scraping his last worn-out scars
gripping the tune of
his harsh breathing—
could've been if he was
the brave man
he ever showed.

Harmonized with his rusty guitar
sang an unfamiliar lullaby—
hummed in different tones;
as he silently uttered a profanity
and there goes him—
let out a clamor
no one will ever heed.

As his visions turned blurry,
the fussing rasps of his voice
can only be grasped
by the mist of death
and there he goes—
sang a weeping lullaby
beside him was the woman—
who so abode with eternal chaos.

And then together, a wayfarer
amid the longing dawn;
the sun shall never rise again.
From the tune of the brave man—
he quieted the chattering misery of
the goddess of the night.
The brave Man and the Goddess of the night.

p.s you can also listen to ‘I Promise’ by Radiohead.
Jul 2020 · 694
August 27th
Coleen Mzarriz Jul 2020
Tears from the mystical sky
seeped in through my shoulder—
as I let its fervor tears
dampen my lowly soul;
he said, “hear me out”

The way it moves around
sailing toward to broaden
mysterious mists—the plastic clouds
covering most of the gleam of the sun
and the way he murmurs into my ears—
I can never get out again.

While strange stares pierced through
my core—a menacing way of
forcing unraveling fragile pieces
of my silent port, and there I
let a foreign one
travel his way through—
sailing beneath my springs.

On this day of August's chilly afternoon—
while the tears of the mystical sky
tumbles through my shoulder—dripping
my cold dry bones.
after a week of not writing.
Coleen Mzarriz Jul 2020
The seawater's saltiness and the tears from the sky passed through my nostrils—the abiding flavor of its bitterness came to me in a halt. Its rushing waves splattered all around. My white floral dress, covered in blood—and its aroma; the aroma of my crimson blood thirst me to sip more.

“Helena, Hel- Helena!” A familiar voice lulled me to wake up. It woke me to a familiar dream I could not forget—the way it keeps pulling me back; it is my cord of weakness. Its cacophony—the reverie; is all I could remember.

A rattling noise distracted me from the trance of my thoughts—we passed by trees standing strong, winds tugging out our hairs—while there played, ‘The Ghost of You’ hang there to lull us in peace; while the quiet August's night disturbs me from within.

“Helbound Town” As we strode across the gateway sign of Helbound, the chills of the night disturbed my senses—summer is about to end, as the month of September lies beneath the thin.
An enormous ancient house welcomed us and the old graveyard greeted me, where the deceased buried me in millions of 'hellos.'

“Come on in.” My Dad yelled when he opened the door. The creaking sound creeps into my bones. As the new Blacksmith House greeted us once again with antique furniture and the aroma of its damp and mildew odor; this is the new home of the Blacksmith.

“Listen, children. All of you go to sleep, and we'll drive down the Town tomorrow.” Dad called out, and we peeped into our new rooms. I pass by my window and the faint sound of the rustling leaves caught me in a swift, “Someone is out there” I whispered and peeked into the narrow window, as I move closer—my phone rang.

“Why are you calling in the middle of the night?!” I frowned when Steph wasn't talking. It's all just jarring sounds and the hushed voices. As I was about to end it, the rustling leaves and the hissing winds startled me. “W-what is this?” I peeked again, and a shadow stalked me from behind the tall tree.

“Hello. Welcome to my territory.” The shadow revealed himself—it was a familiar face. I am sure I met him somewhere; somewhere I couldn't remember.

“Who's this?!” I hissed. The man chuckled and let out a sigh. “Your savior.” He smiled. He's only meters away from my cracked window.

“Don't joke around. You don't know who you're messing with. Also, why do you have my Friend's number?!” I shouted. I couldn't stop myself from cursing and hissing.

He's getting on my nerves.

“Come on. It's just me, don't you remember?” He asked.

“What are you talking about? I don't know you!” I was about to end the call when he threw a rock and it landed on the cracked side of my window.

“H-how dare y-you!? What are you doing? Get out!” The veins on my neck were visible when I stopped myself from screaming so loud. How could this guy!

It was the sound of his genuine laugh that buzzed my ears. It was almost a gentle whisper that hissed in the bone-chilling of the Midnight.

“Goodnight. I will see you tomorrow. They are already waiting for you, Helena.” Then he disappeared in just a swift blink of an eye. I didn't even ask for his name.

There's a part of me that longs for his embrace. A part of me that wants him to be my sanctuary.

We drove past the quiet road of Helbound and went out to see the entire part of the Town. The people welcomed us with pairs of eyes scrutinizing our every move. The children in the street stopped midway and stared at us like we are new things strode past them.

The Town that was once lively and rambling on the narrow part of town was gawking at us—there is something in their eyes that brought danger inside me. Again, a familiar sense—a hidden trance where my mind couldn't remember.

“Come here.” The woman called in a dull monotone. We ignored the pairs of every eye we meet as we enter the small gray and grim of an old restaurant.

“They are just like that when they see new people that come here.” The woman added. My Mom and Dad looked at each other and ushered my two sisters and me to come closer.

“Stay here.” My mom whispered. The woman smirked and the moment I caught her eyes, there was something in her I smell...

Fear was to be seen in her dilated pupils.

“Casper, hurry!” The woman shouted at the back of the room. And there, the guy I talked to last night was here. In front of me. “Here you are” He mouthed and smiled.

The woman then went back and in just a blink of an eye, there is blood splattered everywhere. The horror in my eyes went away and it transforms into a hungry wolf.

I can't... I can't eat them!

“Eat. Eat you witch!” The woman screamed so loud. The cacophony of the surroundings and the muffled screams of people came all in once.

What is happening? What am I? Who am I?

I let out a loud cry—enough for all to hear. Enough for all to see. Then I laughed.

You caught me there.

In just a keen move, Casper was the only one alive.

The seawater's saltiness and the tears from the sky passed through my nostrils—the abiding flavor of its bitterness came to me in a halt. Its rushing waves splattered all around. My white floral dress, covered in blood—and its aroma; the aroma of my crimson blood thirst me to sip more.

I woke up to the rushing waves and the call of the sea. Casper was here—he smiled and reached for my hands.

“I want to eat more.” I pleaded.

“There's a family that wants to adopt you. Now's the chance.” He grinned and kissed my forehead.

“They're waiting for you, Helena. Let's go to their place.” He whispered and chased on the waves. I let out a slight smile and wiped the dried drops of blood.

“I can't wait to meet them.”
A flash fiction.
Jul 2020 · 499
Iridescent Eyes
Coleen Mzarriz Jul 2020
The stillness
of your calm mind
as you sit down
in front of me — where the Tower
stand before us.

Silence dealt with us.

Your burning palms
faced the Sunny
time in the afternoon
of August's lively scene.

No curiosities, your suffering remained
without feelings — you were an oppressed piece
made from littered paintings.

Silence remained veiled.

The iridescent eyes
of yours
attracted me to a hall
full of covered specks of dust
like dawn without Light.

I shelved my next destination
for me to stride inside
your brown eyes — its color embraced me to another
painting — from where your field exists.

Scattered blossoms as you lay there.

I listened to you humming
the simple chorus
swung me into the Invisible Station.
The train caught me, then
in Metro — the Tower
sets against us.

No surprises, I did nothing.
The song finished his words.

You stood — left me
but your iridescent eyes
will remain.

“Silent, this is my final fit.”
I accidentally clicked, 'No Surprises' by Radiohead and I wrote this, as someone in the Comment Section saw a guy listening to this song in Metro, Paris.

I wrote this for them.
Jul 2020 · 563
Sing Me to Sleep
Coleen Mzarriz Jul 2020
I.

Sleeping Siren,
sing me to sleep
a lovely maiden
help me shift,
in my daydreams
to hear his song — that slips away from his rims.

II.

Sleeping Siren,
wake your spirit
for only your song
can force me to waltz
in his daydreams — oh, to encounter him there!
lying down beneath the
shadowy sun
created by fogs;
gentle, like a cushion!
with his lips forging into a beam
oh, to visit him, Daydreaming Siren — wake up.

III.

“Oh, to be bewitched with magic filled
with air in love so keen.
Oh, to engross with fairies
twirling like a bathe bird.
Oh, wonderful, mysterious, mythical,
I am the
Daydreaming Siren,
hiss in the Waters
for I will respond.

IV.

I let myself sink into the broad ocean
and let the coolness rub my skin
for I am about to have him
the lullaby in my trance.
I locked my eyes
as I let the fairies
tune with their uncanny wand;
“Hope so bright, give her request
feels so strong, grant her a peck
love so keen, serenade her to hallucinate.

V.

Sing me to sleep.
I will greet you in the Parallel
of my dreams bent by air
in love, so eager.
Await me there
for I will slumber a little without slowing
later I will see you
when I awake
'Tis now the time
of Spring
fare thee,
ne'er forget me.

For I will close my eyes without a slight dulling.
Oh sleeping siren, wake up and sing me to sleep! 'tis now the time to waltz in his dreams! with the fairies whirling like a swimming bird, I call to you, a beautiful maiden—I whistle into the Waters!
Jul 2020 · 390
From Where He Falls
Coleen Mzarriz Jul 2020
I.

The Angel becomes fallen.
from where he spreads down
there by followed — with soothing lullabies
in delicate light,
the Fairy appears.

II.

He arouses to the music
of her wings — the myth
gains to life.
The Boy blinked twice
from where he lingers down,
there the Fairy appears.

III.

The rush of waters
calms the essence of the Boy
when the Fairy extended her grip,
he thus was lured
into enchantment — the particular illusion
he was keen to understand.

IV.

Chirping birds — rattling noise
squirrels chattering;
the refrain sounded
in the mind,
when the rapidness
of one's way of heart-beat's
tingle from within.

V.

Into one's perceiving
from where he flies down
in the grips of a fairy as she bears power — wreak havoc,
so that the tale alone lies
in books:
to be learned by children.

VI.

Until he who belongs to
melted ashes
of charisma and grace — again he greets her
the winged melody
buzz in his tastes
a shooting star
hanging upon an idle request
from where he spews,
preserved by the Fairy.

VII.

The Angel becomes settled.
the Fairy comes,
in the stream where they clash
as the sky bore his pining,
the illusion appeared to life.
I wanted to try this.
Jun 2020 · 750
Into the Unborn
Coleen Mzarriz Jun 2020
Deep into the midnight
below the gleaming star,
I step on the running wall — the creation of Nirvana,
lights.

Heaven's an enigma
a forged between the steely and the curve
the star's collision and the minor parts
have the iciest heart — a grain of Truth.

Prophesy the future,
shuffle the sheets
and let them look at
your eyes — does it carry the dullest truth?
Or a blundered ignorance?

Does the dawn of the newborns
form the hallowed mysteries
of heaven's plea?
Into the Unborn
where the sky holds a mere certainty.

You climb long — to match the moon's faint
and the beaming sunlight;
where the galaxy
was just as narrow
as the strange fragments
of what we see?

Then if beneath us was the roaring storm,
will it expose the unborn?
Will the dream catch us
when we fall asleep?

Into the future.
this is what happens when we have a clear vision of our dreams, yet an obscure journey we'll have when we try to reach it.

we tend to overlook the hardest part, yet so easy for us to be in a figment of our imagination.

can we unfold the existence of Truth?
Coleen Mzarriz Jun 2020
Darkness.

It was a surly heart
That I received through
The facades of this place
Where I could no longer
feel the intensity
Or the port thins
In Hummingbird.

The pavement.

From where I reach
The households that were lively
as it is,
Now is just a muffled
Lullaby — not wanting to be heard.

For once, I knew,
We are the shambles.
We let them in
We let them see
Until now we follow;
I could not find the dimmer.

The light.

Has gone through
The running walls of this world
The pit was so deep—ghosts passing—tireless, ageless
Lost for once again.

Ghosts.

From where they are reborn
Into the blackness
Where the void remains — an imagination — a fantasy
Where the minds
tackle for the parallel,
From which they waver and perish;
An ambush.

Singularity.

Now I drift and ramble
till I picked up the ticking second
falling from the top — from when it lost me,
'Tis now the moment to be created again.
When a soul is fallen — that is when he is found.

Vigorous colors.

Memories of warmth colors
bringing back the place
Of yearning,
Now from the muffled lullaby
Is a peeking peekaboo!
If uniqueness as it is
And that later than mortal;
Is now a vital colors
glow as it is — In the pavement of Hummingbird.
My last piece was a wreck and I am quite satisfied from this poem! :)
Coleen Mzarriz Jun 2020
“Will you help me out?” She spoke as she patted the wildflowers sprouting out of oblivion's area. A vacant look she displayed. A devastating smile she acts.

His hands ragged while writing in the typical period of the 15th of November. He was just dealing with his sword while his snout sunk in the dimension of his world—his best companion, Cecilia.
Clicking and clanking of wares while he wrote for words to take place out of his later story. He was equipped for another battle—another best work ever penned by his Nom de Plume's J. L Carter. Yet no one knows him.

A man buried with his sin's mask—a haze in a whirlpool's sun.

“I'm satisfied.” He mumbled and savored his drink. Cracked his fingers and gawked out the window. He smiled—a rapturous smile after he executed one of his characters. Yet no one can determine who's who. A whodunit story. He stayed glancing at the asphalt of Hill town's Garden where the blossoms sprout and the wild grasses hug its petals, this is his territory. This is his world.

After a while, he shifted off the brights and slid off to slumber. Ignoring the echoes inside his head.

“Not now” He stated. A few moments of silence and he opened his eyes—as he glared on the ceiling, aching for the screams to end.

“Psst… Psst?… Psst!…” Called by a strange voice. He closed his eyes and dared not move. “Not now. Not now.” Said he while his hand balled in horror.

“Shh… D- be frightened .” Uttered by a youthful woman while she murmurs into the black. He hid his face with his cover and did not even rub the drops on his forehead.

“I am hallucinating.” Said he, inside his mind. The youthful woman moved beside him and rested nearly his bed. While he, couldn't inch a move—fearing the little ghost would intimidate him further.

Then raised his coat off his face, exposing a young man with knitted eyebrows and an ocean eyes glaring with an ounce of laugh to the youthful woman with long hair sticking in her face with her lips fluttered and a beam's appeared in face of him.

With a depth and both looking with each other—asking how's and why they were together.

“What i-is h-happening?!” The man darted from his bed and buried himself even further. The youthful woman laughed and bid her mere words, using only her eyes.

“I bet you recognize me even better.” She spoke in a pleasant manner. Even more, disturbed with what the man felt—a stroke of stillness inside him. Like serendipity at midnight.

“I d-don't know y-you!” He screamed whilst his voice toned down fearing he'd wake up his neighborhood. The woman only looks around and smiled at him.

“So, this is your world. With a little apartment and an antique typewriter?” She asked with a muffled tone. The man glanced at her—like a paid clown trying so terrible to make a baby giggle.

Then both snickered.

“I know you recognize me.” The woman pressed him again this time. The man only peered at her—staring even further and with a modest grin, he nodded.

They both peered at each other, conveying with signals through their minds, for their lips untouched; they communicated through with eyes—for more than they know, eyes are the purest form of truth.

They were both hushed with a heavy knock coming outside his door. Then they both burst into the narrow window and fled from the horror that's about to take place.

The bone-chilling fog covered most of their sight—that made them intertwined their palms and ran until they were standing barefooted in the head of Hill town's Garden. The woman pulled out his hand and knelt in the face of the greenhouse.

“Will you help me out?” She spoke as she patted the wildflowers sprouting out of oblivion's area. A vacant look she displayed. A devastating smile she acts.

“Delia.” He called out. Delia turned her head to the man and threw him a gentle laugh that he, will never forget.

“I am he.” He added. Delia only smiled and responded and gave him a small flower.

“I-I tried, but he's much tougher than I am, Delia.” He spoke, and almost whisper but heard by her. Delia, with stillness, crouch and looked even further in his eyes.

Her longing eyes enraptured the man, it is as if telling him that even then, everything happens for a reason.

“I understand why you do that, Jake.” Delia laid her hands on his shoulder and hugged him. “I know you are not him” She continued.

Jake only uttered with a sniff—his tears drenched and remained like that for a few moments of a lullaby, amid Hill town's Garden. Until it barked them off with laughter so enraging—so ill that they dared not move.

“I am he.” The man sneered and his face revealed his scars, even though they were not so distinct from the man Delia is hugging. Yet they were diverse with another story to tell. Another desperate, and another hopeful.

Another memento, and another forgotten.

“Go,” Delia whispered.
The time is here. Its tragedy will mark both of their souls—be delivered from greed, be released from captivity.

“I-I c-can't!” He jeered. Tears keeping her gown dipped. Delia stepped closer to endure the fierce blade in her heart.

As they both breathed a sob, Delia gripped his hands and jabbed it herself.

“N-no!” Both cried. The man with scars vanished; a part of him was and losing him from the villain's lunacy.… and later he, who lost his lover, stayed there gawking with terror—the woman he so prized, died using his cold palms; for him to be free from another yet so gruesome tragedy.

That the author himself wrote. Another memento inside his head. Where he is the writer, the villain, and the protagonist.
I wrote this because I was feeling insecure and I hope I gave this piece a justice.

p.s you can call me out for some errors if u find some!
Jun 2020 · 341
The Infirmity of Life
Coleen Mzarriz Jun 2020
I was glancing sideways when my eyes caught you, I told to myself, “You have your picks.” You are so perfect like a classic portrait displayed on a museum, a frail mirror revived at its subtlest; thus are driven ravishing—a portrait so lost in the sea.

That's when I found you, just someone I acknowledge. We stroll past each other—thought of something, typical. Little did I realize, the man so stiff, when he sits—wearing some thick eyeglasses: a strange passion, that's when I grasped, I will write to you.

For the first time, a man I know nothing at all, just a civil smile you put on to some pictures, I noticed you were 'something', seen. In nights where no stars appearing—when the moon was sheltering behind the mists; when the midnight so deep appeals bleaker than I expected—isn't it shameful that I figure out of how alluring that grin of yours, while I look at myself, and see,

That we will never cut across the same route, to reach through something remarkable? That I feel this electricity inside, while yours are just functioning?

The Infirmity of Life, I guess.
I guess, I will never forget how that smile of yours, made me feel this way—something colorful inside my stomach.
Jun 2020 · 1.3k
Of Another Twisted Mind
Coleen Mzarriz Jun 2020
Distinct shades of hues — stood the same
as the pitch-black dusk
takes place into the steel cage,
it dooms her life — a tale of desolation.

A series of the cynic
seeking through — peeking eyes
hushed lips,
here comes despair.

Painted words
by her — another form of scars
wrestled and won
of newness
and fondness
of her secrets
and her sins — are like faces
from a covered haze.

Shredded reputation — stop!
“It will never settle.”
She will strike once again
her vulnerability — remains concealed:
it must preserve her.

“It will never end.”
As she sips from the twists of her
remorse,
though she buries
her facade.

“End her.”
Hailed by her,
while she seeks for
another shade of colors — thus lead her
of another yet
the flicker of the sun.

“It will work out, I believe so.”
cynical moments made in 3a.m.
Coleen Mzarriz Jun 2020
I woke up from my stupor
of thoughts — where I bathed from the floods
and heard his knocking
heart and lullaby,
merged with a stroke
of something,

I couldn't avoid — it wears me out
but I can't stand myself
from winding and running
into the land — where I can watch him
and see him
and hold him
and embrace him.

His divine voice
woke me up from my stupor
of thoughts
of my retired song
of my regrets
of my dying requests.

Oh, to discover him
near and down below — oh, to meet him
and trace his palms
wriggling to get
my face — my eyes,
and feel him in me.

Following me
in another portal of my realm — were his sole sound
I could tune in
and familiarize;
in the celestial music of his heart,
I can pick up my way back.
I guess, Radiohead got into me so I wrote this piece.
While listening to: Fake Plastic Trees
Jun 2020 · 680
Windowpane
Coleen Mzarriz Jun 2020
The sky holds its truth — as I stomped my feet
and let my cold eyes burn
into the windowpane
I realized,
they have my mysteries.

Shadows were occurring through,
conscious of my becoming —
demons were shrieking,
“Hail! Laud be to the desert god!”
I couldn't keep up anymore.

Dusts were stirring;
spider's web untangling,
they have my secrets.

Yet they stood hushed.

I did it again, did I?
All my sins showing
like a clog stink
I perceive,
the shadows screamed,
“Laud be to the desert god.”

Her face formed from the wetness of my sins,
showing me
of whom I have:
grow into and to be gone.

Hail you, hail you.

The windowpane
drew me back
to its torture,
begone now,
for I have descended from grace.

I am now a fallen angel.
“Begone now, hail you.”
They cried.

The sky holds its truth — all my secrets been dropped long,
but since then, they howled,
resurfaced from the deep hole.

I am frightened.
Begone now,
begone.
seeking for help, begone now.
May 2020 · 368
Finding You in the Desert
Coleen Mzarriz May 2020
Where are you?

I am in the midst. Of nowhere and of mislaid sanity. I am frightened of who I am becoming into, plunged in Iliad.

Where the sequence of misfits and my torments combined; I am crucially breaking my existence. So broken—who am I pursuing? Sparkling eyes, igniting palms—they were showing up tricks on me.

They were here. Watching me—they outgrow wings like a slipped angel: descended from grace. Their eyes glittering into mine—slowing ticking blasts, so I'd still have time—to endure every bleeding, the state of my miserable hovel.

Where are you?

I am in the midst. Of being lost and being formed. I am in the pilgrim of my dreams—a wayfarer in the desert.

“Where the shore clashes and the stallion whimper at the sprinkle's coolness, I will get you there.”

I am a sightseer in the spot—where the faint could not be obtained; as I stray and travel, I knew this is who I am developing into.

To discover you in the forsaken as a wayfarer—in strange seasons: a tourist, ahead of time—a butterfly in the coming age.

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

“Where the shore clashes and the stallion whimper at the sprinkle's coolness, I will find you there.”

To meet you is to be lost.
To be created is to be miserable.
Being whole is to be broken.

And there, I found you.
Being lost means being found.
Coleen Mzarriz May 2020
You are the snowflake —
In the buoyant afternoon
Where you fade away — still, when I look at you,
Pure like a waterfall.

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 crisp of December
Where you,
turns into
A delicate sixfold symmetry.

Where you were as remarkable
As white
And bright — just like the brisk — where the coldness,
Can be the warmth.

In every season
There's you — different from time to time;
Still, when I look at you,
You are as graceful,
For 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.
May 2020 · 1.7k
When They Leave a Mark
Coleen Mzarriz May 2020
When they leave a mark,
she grew —
she rose out of grief;
even outgrew some hidden scars,
find some glorious jams — out of scars, she later discovered, a shady gem.

When they leave a mark,
she grew —
she bred out of bare sounds;
she then understood the relevance
of empty promises — its words and its absence
the mere thought that grows with it.

She then leaves a scar;
some strain,
some courses of her daily life — some parts of her,
even when she did not become a part of theirs.

She then rose —
when they leave a mark.
we grow, we develop, we love, we leave traces of marks—some part of us.
Coleen Mzarriz May 2020
In just a fleck of soot,
conceived in flesh and blood —
there we are,
breathing in harmony;
even with empty songs
out of noble destruction.

Crickets sang for mate — nature dance with waves — people convey with phrases,
still with their tones,
we create masterpieces.

Singing with those compositions — flowing of patterns; dry our bones,
with just a speckle of dust — it makes us.

In just a particle of grime and clay;

Formed in flesh and blood — in melodies,
thyself is a treasure.
Thyself is a masterpiece.
you are a masterpiece.
May 2020 · 658
The Curse at Night
Coleen Mzarriz May 2020
She was wobbling and sailing with the strokes—she was just bucking in all the dreads
and uncertainties—she was just staring and letting
the cold flood,
brush her naked feet.

The radiance that persists in her core—yet discovering that missing part;
Where is it?
Where can she meet it?
It was the same twists
that drove her alive
on the cushions
that piles around her feet—
it was meaningless
that she couldn't
wouldn't
understand—the notion of
her harsh sigh—the suffocating uncertainty that remains; that stays—circulating another form of pleasure,
in her spirit.

That is the curse at night—it drifts,
it resounds,
like a futile, annoying clock—she couldn't eradicate.
some thoughts.
May 2020 · 267
The Dreamer and the Doubter
Coleen Mzarriz May 2020
It was a swift, shimmering thought — in my core, I felt
I was a dreamer — yet to be forgotten,
but a memorial to the ones
who knew where my heart lives.

It was a grim swallowing thought — in my head that pokes out
the senses and the words — I perceived,
I was a doubter—
to be neglected,
a remembrance no one
seizes on to.

The quick brilliance of the sun — made way to the Dreamer and the Doubter,
they smashed like an outburst;
Their natures drawn the clumps together — they won't be able to escape.

It was a collision of something — a fragment they couldn't endure;
it was both the 'hope'
the impulse to start again.

It was like a chant,
near to its precise tranquility;
They both understood,
they have to force
what's within
and what's not seen.

They were once
a Doubter,
a Dreamer
a song couldn't be finished — then an abrupt blast
of thoughts swirling,
it was a collision of stars
they saw,
they could overcome.
It was a dream to be able to write a book, yet this little demon inside us—a hindrance playing a big part in our lives, that stops us from dreaming—from fulfilling.
Apr 2020 · 608
When the Night Has Begun
Coleen Mzarriz Apr 2020
The night has begun —
she dashed into the crest
of the woods
where the branches would clank together,
forming an echo of suspiciousness —
silence cannot be suppressed.

Through the drifting moon — the stars tracking her every stride
into the broad peak of the unknown,
somehow she can inhale in the black.

“Hello, which pathway will you pick up?
Can I tour with you?

She cried out.

“I don't want to be alone.”

The trees floated on the flicker of the breeze — granting her the direction
that she desires — somehow,
she realizes she is not alone.
I don't want to be alone.
Apr 2020 · 275
In the Depths of Despair
Coleen Mzarriz Apr 2020
How I yearned to eradicate the worries
in your mind
that I ached for — in those nights
that I crave it flees away till the sun arrives.

She is in the depths
of despair — I am glancing at the moonshine
loose up in the pace
of the sound
of her plight.

I loathe to agree
but I couldn't stand any longer
I am in the between
a family and a friend
that loves —
we are the angels of the promise — the heart-lock frame of our strands — I hope you carry on to
please stay much longer.
Remind your best friend whenever she's drowning with her thoughts.
Apr 2020 · 356
Eternal Farewell
Coleen Mzarriz Apr 2020
They said goodbyes
are the hardest — but for me,
it was the easiest.

It was a farewell
I crave it arose a long time ago;
it was a farewell I hoped
for — in the moon
and even in the unseen shooting stars.

Eternal farewell to you
my guilt — I ached to erase
my hands — I yearned to wash
my past — that lingers in every midnight.

Eternal farewell to you.
say good-bye to them.
Apr 2020 · 1.4k
A Lullaby in the Moonlight
Coleen Mzarriz Apr 2020
There she was
Walking in the light
Disguised as an angel
Near the lake
Of shining waters
While her hair
Smells like an old flower
In the moonlight

There she was
Peeking through your dreams
While you close your eyes
In her lullabies

There she was
Singing in the light
Like an ocean's roar
In the night

Close your eyes
She's now leaving
In the quiet sound
Of the night

Close your eyes
She's an angel in disguise.
It was a poem first, before I turned into a song.
Apr 2020 · 296
A Cry For Love
Coleen Mzarriz Apr 2020
Her name's Cordelia.
Plain and different—no one adores her except the woods, the wild blossoms, the stream, and him.

She wasn't pleasant nor have a judgment for romance. She wasn't desperate for love—but she was throbbing for it.
She was aching for him.
It was a foreign sentiment, like a conducive petty thought.

It was a scream inside her head, holds her from making the right thing—or is it? To choose from lingering in the familiarity rather than grasping the pure delicacy—the life's greatest rival: passion.

Her name's Cordelia.
Plain and strange. Sometimes she wishes she can be like anybody—little did she realize, the charm is deceptive, but a growing mind is the sincerest form of truth.

Mourning for affection.
An ache for grief.
Cut to the core.

Poor Cordelia, having to grieve amid nowhere, where the creeks are the only cry.

Even the shrubs stood hovering, the wildflowers ceased blooming, and the breeze—did not heave a single gasp.

Calling a plain destruction a beauty makes a person extraordinary. Her name's Cordelia—aching for a passion.

The woods danced with each other—the branches that look like a scaffold had withdrawn and the air breathed a refreshing cool breath and even the creeks created a magnificent ocean's song.

Just for her to find her lost piece.

It wasn't a dull passion—it will be romantic—a pulse for a pulse.

But passion will not reside in a mundane place—where all just slips and rush.

Her name's Cordelia, a simple youthful woman—yet finds beauty out of the ordinary.
It ain't much but here ya go.
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