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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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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Post-it Notes

i took slices of scotch tape

and i stuck them on papers,

either quotes or drawings.

i created a collage of my ego,

and no, it won’t collapse.

my pride is hidden beneath those words

and everytime i see the wall, i relapse

to the days when i held the world.

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Flightless Flock of Sheep

when a feathered creature learned to dive

and glide underneath the empyrean,

his silky wings brace the ol’ buttermilk sky;

wafting herds of sheep, mounting one another,

gently moving in an all familiar direction-

all the way to the neverending finish line.

how restless they were

and the creature wondered why.

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he explored different faces; different places

and avoided savages in their beastly phases.

when famished, he stepped on weak worms

and let his pointed beak pecked the life out of it.

in his eyes, he’s a hungry creature,

naive and absent to others’ thoughts.

his stomach growls louder and he wanted more,

how monstrous he is!

and the worms wondered why.

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And all goes back to the little creature

when a tiny missile-like steel

touched his pounding heart,

an abundance of sheep wept,

but he still continues to fly.

not into the arms of the Shepherd,

who guarded his flock with his eagle eyes.

the Shepherd didn’t catch him,

and the creature, into the abyss he goes

and the Shepherd knew why.

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Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Scorned

a blanket of roses

over her lithe body,

and candle wax

on her pale fragile face.

no crimson flowing,

and her eyelids locked.

drowned in eternal peace.

once she consumes heaven,

oh, she’ll be beautiful.

but haunted by vices,

dances on carcases

and malice she wore

displays her wrath.

how graceful she laid there,

how beautiful she once was.

what beauty

can hell make of her?

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Damned

i’m nothing more than a raggedy creature,

stuck in a chamber with mice and rodents.

they treat me like a worthless tramp

and served me bones i couldn’t consume.

i am left to wither each and every other day,

and when the time has finally arrived,

my smile shall be painted on my lifeless face.

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Of Dawn and Dusk

hummings of creatures when sunrise bloomed

and grace frisked to the flow of those who knew.

passing rusted leaves lying on the bed of filth.

perishing lovely roses with pricks of guilt.

you, a lone, hid among shades of dimmed tint,

brooding over an assemblage of strewn flint.

intaking air from dawn’s mellifluous breeze.

resting beside lakes from far-flung tease.

trilling along the tunes until afternoon’s drizzle,

hide coated his skin, but he needs no muzzle.

drenched by droplets from Heaven’s weep,

an anomaly at night, absent to each sleep.

yonder to the void, he ascends from the deep.

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To Make a Human

the cauldron fizzled and the steam arose,

blisters, weighing like thin air, began to float.

i gathered up ingredients to soon meld a being,

it will become a grand masterpiece!

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for touches of shy and sweet spices,

sprinkle crystal-like sugar from sugar canes,

during the season of harvesting.

too much and a frenetic gets jumpy.

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for the heart’s warmth and empathy,

collect ashes- residues from the fireplace,

during the hours of a frigid twilight.

too much and the wrath will ablaze.

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for the sagacious mind to contemplate,

pile up milky strands of hair from hoary men

who immersed themselves with words.

too much and a cynic be bald.

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for the humour and jests to laugh upon,

bottle up bubbly chuckles from other humans

during a comedic feast or a carnival show.

too much and malice becomes their satire.

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i mingled all elements with a wooden spoon,

sang dulcet melodies for extra seasoning.

my mixture imploded with varied hues

composed of goodies to be fused.

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but all became flawed with a tiny mistake,

a thread of my hair- my flaws and weaknesses,

fell to the amalgam, a new colour formed,

i was in tears until a human was born.

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he emerged and his faint grin was first to be seen.

i threw away all thoughts of being a failure,

and realised, he too, is a fallible human.

then, a smile painted widely on my face,

“Perfect.”

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