They say a writer who waits for the ideal conditions to work
dies without putting a word on paper
There is something dying everyday inside of me
Because I can’t stop the clock to write these ideas
like a blight to me.
My soul is seared
Can’t fix my life
like I fixate on words
craving a fix of paper and pen
Ten months since I’ve bled a poem.
Writing is the only true home
sinking with the rest of the world
need to forget society.
I know I’ve disappointed that part of me
for having not achieved what she yearned
for me to achieve
Yet still I know there is an older, wiser me
anticipating for me to change my indolent
course of action
stuck in a timeless mirror contraption.
Break her out
the only weapons are my words
So write for her
Because my heart cannot conceive to deceive my own again.
We don’t own ourselves. We don’t posses ourselves. But we don’t know that just yet. Instead, we belong to the people whom we have given pieces of ourselves to. We have trusted them with these fragile yet colorful pieces of ourselves, hoping they hold onto them for us and never let go. Never break it. Never lose it. Never destroy it. We expect, we hope, we pray they will safeguard our pieces. Nurture, comfort, and care for our pieces. Then one day, a person comes along and takes that piece of you and does everything you ever feared to it. That’s the day you realized it- you are not you, but rather the connections and interactions and markings and fittings of all the people who were ever bold enough to own a piece of you. And you thank that person. Because they make you realize your pieces should fucking belong to you and only you.