She wants to
Hit the beach,
To say life is all right.
But there are
Her fragile soul.
Get up, sweet child,
Own your life.
Find your own bliss.
Scars are welcome,
Learn from it.
Back again, back again
After years of fading out.
Back again, back again
I hope I can share something I care about.
Back again, back gain
Just happy to come again.
Sitting still. Little movements.
Inscribe. Pen. Jot.
The heart is screaming to do that.
Brain, drowning with words
Gullible, seduced by every thought that forms inside.
And then she settled, actors fashioned to her liking.
Parts given. Storyline laid out open.
Motley emotions in hiding and on display.
Unadorned words echo rawness.
And bottled feelings she may be keeping.
Or just unassured perhaps?
And lacking in style?
Anyhow, persist she does
Inscribing. Penning. Jotting.
Short and sweet, chatty authorship
Yearning to steal some smile.
“If you can tell stories, create characters, devise incidents, and have sincerity and passion, it doesn’t matter a damn how you write.”
~ Somerset Maugham
I’d like to meet you
But I’m a bit meek.
I’d like to know you
But I feel blah.
I’d like to listen to what you’ll going say
But I’m in a tizzy.
I’d like to talk to you
But I’m loss for words.
I’d like to laugh with you
But will you stare? Uneasy I will be.
I’d like to have coffee with you
But my world’s small you might get bored.
I’d like to be grand and know it all
But my simple thoughts proclaimed I’m not.
But lemme tell you,
My name’s Terry and I hope you’ll be pleased to meet me.
I often wondered what it feels like
To have a closet full of such names
A Prada, an LV, a Gucci, an Hermes
Not to forget the pairs that lines up and persuades.
The Manolo, the Choo, Alexander and Miu Miu
Oh! What a wonderful closet to view!
And I would stare at these luxuries happy and gay
But then… ting! I’m snapping back to life
I’ve a closet alright, but no sight of those delights
Hmm.. I would sigh but smile and still feel nice.
I would buy my latte wearing not a Miu Miu but my worn out shoes
And walk my way carrying not an Hermes but my old tote that’s so overused.
As I sip my morning caffeine, I would utter a little prayer
Thanking God for the small things that stitches smile on my face
I may not have one or two of those stuff
But hey, I’m alive and that’s a thumbs up!
Feels like I’m in a hole
With not a little thing to hold on to.
To go up I’m not able to
And so, I’d yell and call.
I’ve holler your name
Once, twice, and many times.
Hoarse, tired and in confines
Gave up; feeling in shame.
As I am trapped in this desolate bottom
I try consoling my self;
Uttering thoughts to comfort myself;
Praying that someone would find me here
Help me ascent and help me blossom.
the habitual motion of life starts rolling
beaming. hopeful. engaging.
scorching, chaotic, struggling
every homo is in haste
every breathe indicates the undertaking he should not waste.
drained. muscle aches yet sated of his worth
glad to pile on some Z’s, slumber in the arms of his mate
lights-out and hopes to sleep for eight.
two windows, left and right
with curtains yellow and bright.
on a wall, painted brown
a shelf full of noun.
dainty little angels, stuffed bears, candles and more,
all these, you surely won’t ignore.
the half a dozen light houses
which sits in the quiet recess,
brings memories of joys and bitterness,
some of which are the cause of her hidden loneliness.
she appears happy and gay
a person who smile and play.
a put-on mask you’d say
but would you care in any way?
her room is her refuge,
devoid of colors and hues.
“but my piece of bliss”,
she would enthuse.
and who we are to laugh at her,
if she finds true solace in there.
don’t we all look for a place,
where our flaws we can embrace?