i think
this is perhaps the first time
i came and picked up my laptop,
sat in front of the blank screen,
with the pointer blinking back at me—
and i realized i had so much to write.

about how the world was being unfair,
of how i was being lied to,
of how i was all by myself all again—
and that's what they wanted:
to isolate me after attachment.

and i don't know,
it didn't hurt the way it used to.
i relapsed, kinda—
but i realized i'd healed much more.
and even though it's surprising,
i just don't know how to pen it down.

i was watching the recent season of ginny and georgia,
and i found quotes and expressions and scenes that i related to—
like *******, like poetry is supposed to be form of self-expressing.
but i never knew how to do it in the first place.

and i've gotten better, i know—
but i lie on my bed,
and something's just so poetic about lying in the dark
with posters on my walls,
with pictures telling me to not give up,
to write, to be creative—
and i do all these things just to stop thinking at all.

like, i have my hair open
and it's the second day since i washed them.
i'd changed the day schedule—
it seems kinda nice, like not a repetition for once.
and my mum's showering,
i'm in my room,
the air conditioning is on—
the heat outside is unbearable.

i received a text from a random person asking for my socials,
and i'm perhaps the first in this generation
to not use a social.

i bathed my bunny today,
she's kinda angry at the fact—
but i know she'll round that. she always does.
she just doesn't like water,
but she needs it.

like i don't like to live and be surrounded
by people who don't want me,
but i have to fake it.

that's kinda simple.
but it's hard to accept—
like the brutal kinda truths that seem to reflect my own insides
and i just have to let them.

and every time i look into the mirror,
i imagine who i can be.
but to be that person,
to be the me in the mirror—
it's just— i don't have a way yet laid out in front of me.

i've got no prompts today—
perhaps i'll ask for some, look around and always return
to write back in here.
but sometimes i wanna write just nothing at all.

like write it out,
but it's about nothing—
just things that are so normal
that they don't even seem to matter.

you won't see someone writing about breathing
until they know the lack of it during a panic attack.
you won't see someone writing about a heartbreak
unless they've been through that.

and they could write from the experiences of others—
but first, you have to experience.

and i don't know,
i'm perhaps getting somewhere—
but that isn't even necessary, at all?
right?
like, i can exist,
and i don't have to make a big point out of it— all times.

i can be breathing,
be listening,
be wanting something but not knowing what i want exactly.
and i could be just in the zone of comfort
without having any comfort at all.

but it's just— hard to define, to put in words.

i had no thoughts when i came here,
but right now i type,
and i watch myself type,
and i see the words coming to life
and i want to keep going on and on and on and on
until the cycle just never stops
and i can keep on speaking and speaking
and somehow get it all out—
all that i've felt, or all that i keep feeling.

and i could write my past down
but i don't have any memory unless it's triggered—
i'm just— like a total black space
with no stars either.

and i'm running out of metaphors
and i'm afraid that i won't have this writing skill of mine.
that's kinda one of the fears.

the second is to show people i truly hear—
and see, and watch as they go ahead
and do the things that will have me lost—
far, far away from them.

and i wonder if they even see then—
that i can be the one they need,
but to be someone that i need,
myself, with me—

i just read a quote that said
"life's easier if you have even just one good friend,"
and i have had— one of those, always and now and then—
but i kinda seem to always lose it all.

and that's alright,
because somehow, you find a way—
but i can't still go to these good friends of mine,
and talk to them—

another thought—
if you can't find a reason to be,
become the reason yourself.

just got a random thought that could be a big quote
and now i'm being gaslighted—
is this thought my own
or did my brain pick it up from somewhere
and threw it in the open for more?

poems don't always have to have an ending—
well, they do.
but that's what i tell myself
when i can't find an ending suitable enough
to fit in the already written words.

and then i realize,
the infamous line from the series i'm currently watching:

"listen or don't, i don't care—
that's life right?
things don't always have happy endings.
or even endings.
it's not fair like that.
we're just left hanging
and we don't know what's gonna happen.
we don't even know what really did happen.
so all we can do is decide to just not care."

"i think you do care.
when you wrote that poem, you wanted an ending.
you crave resolution.
you want things to make sense.
and sometimes they don't.
and that frustrated you,
so you frustrated us, the listeners.
you pushed us away.
oh and that's the name of the poem by the way,
'ending'."

I settle down to bed,
I'll read or sleep or write
Or not

I'll write if they do, I'll work because they have,
I'll use there inspiration as a sign to find my own, to write my life or a story or my thoughts on them,

As, if they can write so can I,
They write a story I'll write a poem,
They wright a thousand words and I'll write one.

They write to us, to me
I will write to them, a compliment,
I will write to be seen or read as by only me,
For I am alone, weather I am seen or no,
I am alone

So I will sleep tonight as I have read and they have write,
We both sleep, alone and tonight.

Can't get this page to fill
This pen is bleeding white noise

Creators are made off their failures
And achy finger joints

I'm digging untill my back breaks
Silence I won't accept

I promise
Next time I'll feel the words
I'll write
If they return

Sometimes I tend to be a catalyst,
Carrying things to light,
Rooting them deep where they belong.

Nothing bad,
It's what I do,
I'm proud to ferry,
The things they carry.

Sunset burns
in my eyes
like a piece of nostalgia
not yet extinguished
at the border
of steel and soil
shadows stretch long
become a silent giant
bearing the weight of all these years
standing still in the fissure
of time
at the street corner where
town meets countryside
I remember the sparkling beach
waves murmur in foam
lapping the shores of memory
on the other side
it's the roar of bulldozers
the arousal of city’s neon
sinking into a soft sofa
is what many dwellers here call life
two souls twist in the night
loneliness heavier than our skeletons
two unfamiliar thoughts pressed
in a momentarily illusion
breaths synced like a metronome
falling and rising
searching for any place to land
wind tapping the windowpane
bringing the paleness of dawn
behind us
who are numb to the passion
mountains stretch on
silent and strong
lifting a vast sky
beneath it all
is the weave of city and country
the tangle of dreams and reality
and the countless footsteps
of the faceless
setting out again, fading down the hall
in the morning
faint click of a door
sealing off the shape of
a little comfort.

In the creases of my heart, I sit alone.
Feeling the waves of life hit as soothing as snow.
My husk feels hollow, as though I am melted to the bones.
Above me are clouds of darkness and thunder,
moving as silent as the despair through my blood.
I look at the journey afar to just catch a glimpse—
a glimpse of the promised life that seems a lie so far.