She

Magic is her middle name.
And rarely, she plays by the rules of the game.
Rumbles of leaves sing to her everyday.
“Junk is art,” she used to say.
On the fragile phase, she hid.
Repeating “I am not a kid.”
Iridescent lights flash between her eyes above,
Encased by grief is the girl who has never been in love.

((suggested song with this vibe: Georgia by Vance Joy))
(Image from http://www.grafolio.com)

I Will Never

No matter how much the wait stings
or how much you annoy me
or how often you try to kid around just to make me laugh
I will never
ever
tell you
that I love you
because by that time
you would have known it already
or guessed, maybe
you will smile
and wonder what it feels like to be held
by the universe
and I,
I will smile back.
For that will be the moment
that you
will have completely known
that the you you are now and the you you will be
is loved
by me.

(Photographer yet unknown)

Blue

When the music starts,
it doesn’t feel like something nice.
The trees say hello
but the doors bang louder.
It keeps on telling you
you can’t
because you’re blue,
you’re blue,
you’re blue.
The tides splash in unison
that swallow you whole
down the seabed,
around the ocean floor.
When you tell yourself it’s time you do,
they remind you that  you’re blue you’re blue you’re blue.

The streaks of your long, vibrant hair
fall under your lower hip.
But why do you sell yourself short?

The color of your eyes begins to fade
and your life has been miserable for the past decade.
When the only person you can trust
is you,
it’s hard to forget
the blue,
your blue,
you’re blue.

(Artist yet unknown)

Metaphors

I’m made up of broken pieces.
I’m emotionally fragile, intricately made. Most of the time I wipe my tears off using the back of my hand, and I lock my true self away in the back of my mind. My vessels have question marks streaming inside them to feed my self-curiosity. I tend to get hurt a lot. I tell them that I don’t take things personally. That I’m not the kind of person who jumps to conclusions. Because who would want that, right? I know. No one. But deep down in my restless nights and my shattered thoughts, I really am that kind of person. A really horrible, emotionally unstable person.
I am very tortuous.
I’m a girl obsessed with words that form despicable feelings. That’s why I read and write a lot. It takes me to worlds which are not mine. I long for the exploration of the ideas that other people have.
I’m an ocean full of secrets.
My definition of happiness varies in the depth of the situation I’m in. I drown people with all the love I give. I get jealous easily and I lose my self-esteem whenever I see my ocean treasures floating away from me. The burden I feel is like when I remove stickers and/or price tags from my prime possessions, and it leaves a mark. That also reminds me that everything I have now wasn’t always mine.
I feel things I shouldn’t be feeling. I think of thoughts they told me not to think about. I fall in love with words instead of people. I’m both very stubborn and really obedient. But I’ve already told you, it depends on the situation.
Sometimes my way of thinking is all about self-hate.
However, I wouldn’t go to the deeper part of this article to rant about how I loathe myself. Well, I was about to. But I changed my mind. I admit that I’m not physically and mentally perfect. I have flaws encased in my personality that travels with me like a luggage I carry. I’m the connotation of complicated, but that’s just who I am. I’m walking down a familiar path full of autumn leaves. I’m still trying to find my old self again. This new one requires taking multiple leaps of faith. I’m going to abolish my darker thoughts that will soon cease to exist. I will bloom, I will rise, I will soar.

. . .and I’m starting to think that maybe, just maybe, this time I’m going to be enough.

(image found on http://wht-u-see.blogspot.com/2012/04/rainbow.html)

As a writer

In words, we find solace stitched in our hearts.
In words, our hands intertwine with fire on the trembling ground.
In words, we chase our realities and wake up living our dreams.
In words, we fall in love with unrequited souls that leave postcards in our front porch; reminding us to come
home
home
home.
In words, our stories are somersaulting around the blemished skies.
In words, we find salvation.
In words, we are free.

m

(sketch by Vincent Van Gogh)