Because Holding Back Words Can Kill Me Point Blank

I bit my lip,
holding  back the
words
that would calm
my soul,
but would make you
disappear

And throughout
the day,
I’ve been practicing
how I pray,
for the heavens to
smooth my
wrinkled heart,
for the angels to
sing me to sleep
for the blessed
anxiety to creep
away

I loathe;
myself to stay
silent and just
walk away.

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I Can’t Write You

I don’t feel like writing poetry tonight. I can’t seem to face the unwritten rhymes in my head, or the lovely metaphors i usually scribble. I can’t get myself to think of anything that can be put to a haiku, or a day’s worth epic;I guess, it’s all because of you.

A few weeks strangely passed without any hinch as to who will enter my life in a rush, like a thief in the night, quiet and reserved and yet would make me feel the same feelings i had with past loves,  and would make me a madly driven poet ,writing lines as fluid as water at the darkness of night . I was right. Except in one way. My affection for you is different. My emotions though very familiar, were very strong and more complex than what I had in the past (if i correctly remembered).

You’re far more different. I can’t describe your being in pages. I find my hands heavy whenever I try to render your lips in every shade of emotion there is to existence. I find it hard to write about your eyes, how they’re mysterious and cunning at the same time. I can’t romanticize your hands, your skin, your dry humor that sends shiver down my spine. It seems like I can’t fit you on a blank sheet, that’s why i stopped trying and start thinking.

Then it hit me.

The answer is simple; writing about you will never be sufficient enough for me. Your face never seemed to need words,  never needed to be justified as to why you look unique than others. Poetry doesnt suit your beautiful , carefree soul, no matter how free i make the verses. Not like my past loves where i only write everything about them till I  finished them all and close them like a book, You’re like a map that I  need to take myself, without any compass as guide and lose myself in you.

When The City Lights Lose Its Magic To Me

 

 

I don’t know what

happened, maybe it just

grew old for me or, it lost its

meaning…..

but slowly walking in the busy

streets made me feel out of placed

, like the footsteps of people

who only existed on the pedestrian

corners of that parallel line,

I can no longer hear the different

rhythm it plays whenever the puddles

from the rain mirrors their urgency

and I was there, not capturing the

once adrenaline I have, and just

floats with the humid air of indifference…

 

I can sense defeat on my pacing,

they have so much things in their heads,

and I , the one who walks slowly,

and carelessly dodging rain like they

were daggers who’d murder me in

the middle of the avenue…

 

It scares me….you know?

feeling so…alienated..

my once life…like a race,

pacing with this people,

making beats, and dancing

with the pretty lights…

 

now….it’s just another street..

another avenue…

just a corner I passed by…

Summer Lake

 

 

how bitter my eyes are, glimmering in its own misery….misery about the old visions of the trappings on the lake near the ancient squeaky house of the robinsons a few miles from mine. Those trappings I call them, were holes. Though I am not familiar of what is underneath those holes, but I am sure it is fresh from digging by an unknown water bank mammal. Near the murky lake was a bench, as old and worn out as my heart. The wood is already undergoing the process of decay, and the moss are creeping up at the metal foot of the chair. It’s wet, moist from the rain a few hours ago. I walked a few muddy steps and sat on the bench. Even after the rain, the sky looked so gray, like an old man’s cigar smoke whirling around the said place.
This summer lake. It wasn’t like this a decade ago. This place is the epitome of serenity. Even when I was a little girl, I painted the place the color of the sun, letting it shine under the brightest star my little old self knew. I’d walk at the side of the lake , holding wild flowers that I picked under the big willow tree at the back of the lake and pluck its petals for me to throw, like sea glass on the sand. I’d pretend that I was a nymph of the summer lake, singing my composed lullabies as I skip along, praying fervently for nightingales and a sunny day. There were no trappings on the land near the lake, not like now, and it was greener than the pastures dreamers have dreamt in their greedy minds. It was perfect. It was the solace my little old self was looking for amidst the tyrant situations of her story. Where evil step-mothers aren’t real, but onlu spoiled little girls like her with the same ambitious minds of the former. I remembered my little old self, quietly crying under the willow tree, for those spoiled little girls got her blue ribbon she got from her mother’s dresser and tied to her fish-tail braid as a thing to attract her dreams. They pulled forcefully the ribbon from her hair, stomped on it, spat on it and threw it in the lake, while I try to reach it with my little hands the thing that I adore the most…until I can’t take reach it any longer and just watched it sink into the deep.

I sat there, for hours, crying silently, rubbing my eyes with self-pity and my hands that are too innocent to even save such a dream…failed me, but never let me down. A piece of me, with the voice of the willow tree and the lake, soothed me in a familiar caress my mother gives me. I heard them saying that, I should smile, for my ribbon was a sacrifice to nature…for me to have my reward in the coming days. Repeating the phrase over and over until they made me fall asleep.

I woke up, and I’m near two decades. I woke up to a place where all I see is a rich multi-shades of monochrome. Epicly overlapping one another, making a high charactered snob to the place. The summer lake I once knew morphed into this lair of unwanted secrets, with trappings as holes where you put those unwanted secrets, bury it and let it rot in my flesh…

There’s no more hope in this deceased place…the air I smell is as cold as death, lingering eternally on my lashes. I looked up, so that the watery daggers won’t fall. My tears doesn’t deserve this place. And instead, I stood up, got a small rock as big as a quarter and squeezed it tight before shutting my eyes. I channeled the visions that haunts me til this moment, of being confused, of being lost in love that I thought it was, and the pressure of its lust, how I never wanted it to happen. How my fight if this is my ultimate soulmate, or he was just a lie. My unwanted defeats, and people’s gaze at me when I enter a room, or those dark lonely evenings where thoughts of ending everything seems like paradise….I dropped the rock to a trapping, a few feet away from the lake. I bid it farewell and bury it with soil using my shivering palms. With that soil comes my sadness, and inquiry as to whether I’ll see this summer lake again, or will this be the last time…

I don’t know.