I haven't written in a while…
So many things I want to let out, but I sit before the keyboard and my hands just freeze
Lazy! Wremedi! You're being lazy, that's what most people say
Buh I do not write not because I'm being lazy
These days writing scares me…
There are certain things about me which are so secrete that even the man I see in my mirror doesn't have an idea about them.
Buh when I write, it's like how I feel when I see the petit I fell for …
I feel vulnerable, but I know I'm powering myself toward dauntlessness.
So I write, trying my best to pull myself up so I don't suffocate in this confusion and unease.
I write, so that when the last full-stop for the piece stands, I can embrace the relief
Just like the relief I could have felt if only the petit I fell for had said "yes! I will, I do love you back".
She rocks petit so beautifully all plus size fall victim to inferiority complex when the see her.
She's so beautiful, makes me wonder if such a body will rot after death…
But her body aside, her inner beauty has no size
Her eyes, her smile, her gaze, it makes me daze … in broad daylight I see stars…
A sucker for a love so one-sided… guess not all things are meant to be.
This feeling still following the rejection… gives me clarity into many things I thought were silly.
All along the joke was on me. How proud I would have been to call her ma lady. Such a lady.
But that chapter of my fantasy never found the doors to reality.
That feeling, that satisfaction that could have been felt…
I feel it every time I end a piece… like a baby sleeping in a crib, nothing matters… nothing exists… the only thing real is the peace.
So I write.
And until the day I cannot write, you will have all of me to read.
No matter how many times I seek refuge and home other places
The pen will always be ma final resort… you can call me prodigal all you want.
Wednesday, April 18, 2018
Topic(s) of this poem: poet