He write in bread crumbs,
trails of clues that will not be found because the birds have eaten them. Fleeting, unremarkable, but it feeds and feeds and fills empty stomach. Unfulfilling but full.

( Most of the days that is so much better than being hollow)

Over the years, the forest grows.
Grasses mold it self into canopies, rooftops that shields him from the light. A darkness that blinds but pulsing with warmth. Branches twisting towards each other, entangled in each other stories. 'write better' they whispers.
Flowers will not blooms but the sweet smell of honeycombs wafts through the air like hunger.

( we are hungry and hungry and lonely tell us stories, tell us more more more more please moremoreore-)

So the path to home become unrecognizable. Intangible, flickering as if it wanted to be real.
He feels kin ship down to his bones and whimpers fall out from his mouth, quivers but does not fold.
He curled but life would not, will not let him bend.

What should a man do if he cannot curve, cannot bow and break? They all said that to achieve greatness, he have to taste 'broken' on his tongue. Ripe to the point of decaying, fingers sticky with black honey.

He let his teeth chatters, secrets flew out of his mouth like love letters. Carved into him self are the promises made by breakers and yet, honesty is what he sounds like. A forest is an illusion, they say. Wrap your perception until everything look the same and there is only doubt in your self.

( After all everything have to protect their heart)

Peeling barks, bleeds. He bit his lip, wounds are his lovers but everyone knows that love is treacherous. There is a little boy and a man. There is Him, the one who only grows and feeds but never fulfills. 'Isn't that enough?',he asked.
This was what you sow into me, you make me grow into a man but not a human. So he becomes,
forest isn't the only thing that can burn.

( How do you escape your self?)

This is a mirror house, a forest where every trees are your thoughts, their roots are your beliefs, and their seeds are your doing.

(most of the times, it become your own undoings)

You reap what you sow, but what if you are the one  who was sowed.

-nabs

She is not pretty.
Her face is an average face; normal, common, ordinary. She have too big eyes, a nose that is a little bit too small, and slightly crooked teeth.
She is not pretty, and she does not mind.

Her heart isn't kind.
Isn't caring nor warm, but it is not bitter. It is a heart. Beating strong and pulsing with life. It is too tight, sometimes. Hurting her when she wanted to breathe. Most of the time she lives with the feeling of death but her heart is alive and so is she.

People asked her if she is capable of love.
They never get their answer because it is not their business what her heart can or cannot do.
She loves, barely and hesitantly. A child walking for the first time, falling down and keeps getting up.
She loves like she is dying.

Kindness isn't inherent in her,
but the autumn and pumpkin latte taste bright on her tongue, scalding and burning. She tried crying one night, but the mold would not broke (or it's already broken and she does have enough to care).

People whispers about her, she does not care.
Labels are pinned unto her back and she walks like life isn't just boxes with tags slapped on it. She walks like life is life and nothing more. They are scared of her, murmuring about her normal skin; how she can walk like she is deaf to the world.

They are afraid because she held the secret that they want so bad to devour.
"what is your deal?" "Why won't you smile?"
"Are you even human?" (howcanyouloveyourselfwhenyouarentspecialprettywhenyouarejustcomm­onandaveragehowhowhowhowho-)

She does not stand out, standing out means to fit in. She knows that to fit in means dying. And she is in love with life to let go, too in love to care that she is nothing and not special because she isn't. How can she be more than what she is when life is miraculous and a wonder and so so so much more than she could ever be in a lifetime.

She is not pretty, and she is okay with that.
Because she knows that there is so much more in life than beauty.

-nabs

you tipped my world into your axis-- gravity and such things that do not bind if we do not let them.
weaved--time and affection into a wreath that wound up around my neck.

(the wreath is pretty but breathing is getting harder and harder to do)

i didn't master patience until i fell head first into your orbit. I haven't still--but when you understand something it'll become easier.

i want to untold what i said--to swallow them back, hide them in between the crease of a smile; to cradle them--instead of giving them to you.
but i did and there's no regret to linger on.

(i have given everything--and myself still think it wouldn't be enough.)

take your time, i would rather bleed out than be a cage. and i'll wait until you leave--until you asked; cause the ball is in your court.

(know this,
i have made my choice when i dreamed being with you that night; warm lights--and smiling, in between your arms.)


"love isn't painful. what keeps you apart from it, is the one that's painful"

you went like rockets that day
up and up and up
until you drifted in outerspace
                                   waiting
          for a star to burst apart
dust by dust,
             light by light
oblivion by
             oblivion

                                  waiting,
             for them to unravel
             like you unr a v e  l  e   d


tracing the outer rim of your
asteroids, you
                               wandered
into every constellation in this
existence, take them by their hand
                    left them wanting and
scorched

craters littered your heart, filled
with asteroids belt
                 burying the starlight,
                 rings a shade of sorrow

you made your moon black, and
you said you deserved it

Once,
a little planet said to you
that you have supernovas
                              behind your
                                          eyes
only to see it die,
after

you told me,
          in between light years,
  that you are nothing but a comet
      dying at the heart with nothing
left to
lose


but you forgot, a comet is beautiful
                 because it falls while burning
                                  fighting to live, still
even when it knows it's
dying

tonight we sip our sorrow, bitter
to the point of sweetness
nursing bruised lips, bruised heart--
painful in the way that it burns you
alive,

swaying in our stool,
teetering to the edges and wonder
what it's like to fall, to fall and never
come back,

they ask if we are only halves, only
broken pieces glued into hollowed
body,

but to feel is to exists, and
we're too sad to be anything
other than
whole.

chant chant chant
knife blooming in someone heart
sharp, they said
the earth thrives on blood

false saints
those fallen from grace
who sins and suffers
dancing with bleeding feet
while the ground trembles

virtues, they said
as a head was offered
branches of jasmine peeking
out, from the hollowed socket

the children are playing,
blood on their thin bony fingers and
hungry yearning
mouth

they sing a song,
old and lost as
death came for the festival

Run, even when
the jeers are too loud
your legs feels like they will
fall off, and pain stabbing with
every footsteps that land on the ground.

Keep going, leave marks
unseen or careless
you are the one who will bite
your own fruit of labour.

(don't think about the flavor. if it tasted too much like your blood, swallow)

the dogs, rabid and feral
they will chase you
but they will cower when you show them
your gleaming teeth
all animals know to fear beasts,
especially the caged ones.

Let the wind, shake you up
bring a noose made of what ifs
and the trials that you endures
undulating coils filled with every
rejection that sneak itself into your ribs.

There are cracks on your sole,
some runs through your back
dividing your temple and circling your neck
bending down to your lips, dangles like
the consequences of reality
oozing colors but never spirit.

Run, keep running
until you burn up,
burned up and there is
nothing left but footmarks
on hard stone.

(Water is patience that you drink, but Fire is what we all breathe)