I was born free,
you can never
tie me down
or maybe they
just let me be
live independently
I just never known
what it’s really like
to not be alone.
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Colors leaking outside of me, a once active
imagination now unable to see and create
tales as lively as before, I now live inside
a dying world with a dried up source
never knowing when it will replenish
or should I just accept that soon every
story inside of me will somehow perish?
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It’s all painted in white, everything is clear.
Colorful painted walls suddenly disappeared,
along with the calmness of her mind and heart
comes with the emptiness of her vision and art.
Plants bloom after being watered down by rain,
too long under the sun, now she misses the pain.
Grew a garden in this once unkempt landscape,
built up a fence around it, now she wants to escape.
She had the peace of mind that she once craved
but pouring herself in a canvas, she was saved.
It was lost the moment she found her tranquility,
searching for can of paints, instead found anxiety.
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MORNINGS TURNED TO MOURNING
The ray of the sun’s light is not too bright to pass through this thick fabric curtain and the morning comes but it does not shine in the other side of the window. Until the sun has to set, the bed is still yet to be vacated. Awake through the night and through the dawn with no light, just a debilitated psyche to perceive the misty surroundings— searching for a dash of light and pulling all the threads of this thick fabric. Restless mind through the dark, not even a glint came through out of all the sunrises and mornings. Supposed hopeful journeys and new beginnings led to wasted life and daily mourning.
I wrote a bunch of poetry back in 2017, it was all over the place. So, I finally retrieved it from my old broken laptop and some were from my old journal pages that I may have forgotten about.
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Mixed sensation building up from the inside,
never letting it out and trying so hard to hide
the sign of weakness coming from within.
Stone face, ungrateful tone that I don’t mean.
I’m catching up to my core who’s miles ahead
but everyone perceives that I’m hostile instead.
Terrified to cause a scene but wanting to be seen.
Afraid to be too loud but wanting someone to listen.
I have rambled words and feelings inside of me.
Instead, I let out an odd side of how it’s ought to be.
It’s all in my head thinking how I made such a mess
of myself that I became a machine, and emotionless.
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Gigantic Thought Bubble 