Youth Sings

i do not want to dwell into this fantasy.

a wrenching, swollen heart

slowly diving into flames of “never meant to be.”

time creeps into our space, into our ark.

a gush of water drowning what i believe.

tuning veins, broken strings,

my roots can never reach the leaf,

sticking to sad melodies

and all those mushy things.

⠀⠀⠀
if only i can count your fingertips,

play with them like piano keys,

our hands will never rip,

glued together like honey and bees.

your back against my shoulder blades

and your finger shall twirl my hair braid.

when all i can see is solitude,

confined to me and you,

whispering claims of “never meant to be.”

which is what i believe.

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Language Barrier

i’ll carve our names on a tree bark

with long-twig runes of elder futhark.

dead language, ancient sweethearts

and no one would know it was us.

unless someone appeared out of the blue,

figuring out what to do

with those markings made blissfully,

decoding how we weren’t meant to be

and antiquity shall lay eyes on me

for our love is not too prominent to see.

⠀⠀⠀

i think we are hiding behind metaphors

when there is no reason for,

and neither one of us is good at hyperbole

when our hearts talk, it’s just a folly.

but we can speak with eloquence,

shower ourselves with big words

until to the point, we would not understand,

“why does this language sounded dead to me?”

maybe your shallow feelings can’t be freed

and mine, perhaps, was stuck in that tree.

⠀⠀⠀

still, i keep a library of what you would say,

composed of poetic remarks and terms of gold

i would want to collect and decode

every witty expression or sentence,

but it’s tough to comprehend.

all the time, i knew his phrases,

i’m just a dead language translator

going through phases.

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When the Universe Laughs

when the universe laughs

at how you can’t tell the difference

between glow and gloss

or how you felt lost

beneath his worn out shoes,

guffaws outspread a gust of wind

blustering onto your petty face

the way he grinned,

never once a wise wisdom tooth,

but a pretty muddy face.

⠀⠀⠀
he is the ruler of the abyss

and a wolf that cannot be tamed.

his pitch-black pity hole

was as black as the ink scribbled

on a shaved stick with my name.

he makes puppets for a living-

of the living, i would say.

can’t cut the foil strings,

you’ll have to play out his game.

⠀⠀⠀
but i never wanted to

(not that i can be sure of),

his lukewarm remarks

were stone-cold hearsays,

not a great storyteller,

he’s a silhouette of his words,

but a smouldering fireplace.

i threw in my baby mittens

to let my hands breathe in more heat

my feet won’t complain

and i can’t put out the fire anyway.

⠀⠀⠀
maybe someday,

i’ll step on his crippling skeleton.

grate the bones, gather the powder

and leave the flesh all alone,

my wind shall flew him away.

to the girl who blew dandelions,

wishes do come true- (you don’t have to say)

out comes a gloomy day or doomsday,

when tingles don’t come,

he’ll be kept away.

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