It's Not Your Fault...

Its not your fault the way you feel -
those senseless thoughts, them teary eyes,
how well you know to smile and heal:
the scars on your soul, those hopeless cries.

Its not your fault when you cant hold back
those tears that reflect your vulnerability,
its fine, you know, to let them crack
the bubble of your sensibility.  

Its not your fault if it takes time
to move on and embrace reality;
oh! its your life and life is a climb -
a climb that promises no absolute clarity.

Resurrection

Like the petals that resist to fall
and the flower that holds uptight,
she rebelled against her fate
who was it to decide what is right?

As the days pass by and nights,
the flower withers away;
despite the strength and vigour
those petals lose anyway.

Their loss is like hers too,
for they die inside and out
to pave way for another
more beautiful bud to sprout.

Oh, I wish I can believe them say,
that time heals all the wounds
if it was true, my friend
new buds won’t have to bloom.

White Indifference?

Pain leaves her body like it was never there. There, where it resided for moments that were an eternity long. What it leaves behind, however, is even worse: the feeling of indifference; of restlessness; of implied resentment. She defies herself, her body, her mind. Her soul seeks its breath from outside her body trying to escape the anarchy inside. She is indifferent. But is she really?

Indifference is like the color white. It encapsulates all the feelings that amalgamate into one when in motion all together. From the calm of violet to the rage of red. It ensures their participation if they promise to retain the state of chaos. Hence, all merging into one – an undeniable state of indifference.

But how can indifference equate the color white? How can one even make the mistake of comparing the impure with pure? Drastic with calm? Hideous with beauty?

Maybe that’s how it is.

We are obsessed with giving different meanings to things. With assuring distinctions. What if there are no distinctions? What if indifference is a process? What if white indicates a process too? A process of understanding what we already know and accepting what is there before us. Maybe, that is why they cover bodies – of those once alive – in white. Maybe, that is why we cover our hearts – that were once alive – with indifference. 

A First.

She felt it when she first saw him.
They looked at each other and then looked away.
She didn’t even notice him then. Or herself.

She felt it when she first learned his name.
They were strangers and that, she knew very well.
Why his name stood out, she couldn’t figure.

She felt it when she first talked to him.
they conversed under an obligation: she to ask for a favor; he to give the favor.
She didn’t plan any of it. It just happened.

She felt it when they first met.
He was dressed up in attitude; she in unjustified confidence.
They weren’t meeting each other. They just happened to be around each other.

What did she feel? She didn’t know herself.

It was just there. An emotion as alien to her as he was.
It was a first in itself.  

Inspiration

Inspiration? You may ask,
Where to find, where to look?
in the music, in the sky,
in a person, in a book?

Inspiration, were you to find,
may not be far if you looked hard -
hard enough to see it through,
hard enough beyond your guard.

It rests in eccentric things, you know,
among dried leaves, amidst dead trees;
in the morning cry of a bird,
in the evening hum of bees.

It lies in mundane affairs, you know,
in the way you wake up from sleep,
in the way you blink your eyes to see,
in the emotions that you feel skin deep.

It reflects in simple things, you know,
a smile that brightens up your mood;
in moments of silence worth a thousand words,
in feelings of love utterly crude.

Inspiration, you see, is everywhere
if you like to see, if you want to receive -
a gift that sparks hopefulness,
a present that certainly wouldn’t deceive.

For you decide what inspires you,
and how to make it work for you,
in ways that make you strong enough
in ways its makes you believe in you.   

  

If only you knew...

If only you knew
what you meant to me;
what I had gone through;
what I was ready to see.

If only you knew
how my heart jumped a beat;
how my smile shaped itself;
how It was you I wished to meet.

We promised to stay
in touch every day
to discuss what you did,
what I did that day.

Guess it was easy to plan
for we were friends then;
how mistaken we were
or we didn’t understand.

It’s hard to let go
those memories we made,
those feelings we had,
that we never knew would fade.

I never knew I’d doubt
whatever you say
“I miss you” you type
“I think so” you mean.

If only you knew
I need you right now;
way more than you think,
way more than I show. 

If only you knew.

The Dilemma - Part One

For years, she had believed that her autonomy lay greatly in her choice of restraining herself from surrendering her emotions for someone – no matter how meaningful or exciting. She was a strong, she believed, because she didn’t feel she had to spend her time forcefully thinking about someone who made her heart skip a beat; to mindlessly associate her romantic feelings for someone with lyrics of a song; to wait for someone to look around and reciprocate what she had in her heart for him. It was something they do. They? Those who feel they need attention to recognize their worth. Those who desperately seek an approval from a man. Those who live in a world too different and romantic than the actual one.

Maybe, just maybe, that is why she found herself in an undecipherable dilemma when it happened.

She saw him talking to his friends in the most careless way possible. A couple of notebooks in one hand, standing as lousily as possible. She hated it. She stood too far to hear his voice but managed to anticipate through his gestures that he meant to persuade the other person. He was tall – tall enough to look down at his friends. But why did she care. She looked away. She was observant and this was just an observation.

Next day, while she sat on the bench waiting for her friend to find her, she looked down at her phone to make the otherwise socially awkward situation escapable. It was a busy corridor. Annoyingly loud and overwhelmingly crowded. Some chuckles here, some laughter there. It was really hard to listen to people standing nearby rest aside those who stood 10 steps away yet she could hear a soft heavy voice. It seemed strangely likeable. Whatever it was, she looked around. It was the same tall, fair skinned lousy boy talking to a bunch of people as strange to her as he was. He stood out from all of them. Not because he was particularly better looking or different – he just stood out. Before she could figure why, her view was blocked by the friend she had been waiting to meet.

Days passed. She barely saw him again. It was fine. She probably had paid so much attention because he was weird. Convincing herself not to be too judgmental, she gave up the idea of even thinking over it.

She saw him the other day with people she knew of. It didn’t matter. Looking away, she started walking without a destination in mind. She just had to walk away from that sight. Why? She didn’t know. Lost in a labyrinth of thoughts as vague as they ever could be, she felt her arm slightly brush against someone’s shirt and she unconsciously cringed. Looking around, she saw the guy. It was him.  

She hated him even more. For taking away her freedom. For poisoning her mind. For weakening her heart. She couldn’t help but think of him. Every day, she would hope to see him around. Never accepting how special his sight was to her, she always knew from the inside that it was different...