Free Verse · Free verse Poetry · home · micropoetry · Poem · Poetry · prose · sadness · Uncategorized · Writing

Where was Home?

But where was home?

Was home a building, a place, a time, a person?
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Was home the warm smell of coffee brewing early in the morning
Or was home the clean smell of detergent on your pajama clothes late at night?

Was home the crisp smell of paper as you sat down to read or was home the stingy smell of ink leaking from the pen?

Was home even a smell,
Or was home the feel of your worn out comforter as you laid to rest each chilly evening?

Was home the feel of slippery tiles under your bare feet
Or was home the feel of fraying petals between your fingers?

Was home the view of the city lights outside arched windows
Or was home the view of green grass outside narrow ledges?

Maybe home was a time, a time to where you were more happy
Or a time to when your heart was more whole,
when those you thought you’d never lose were still by your side.

Was home your house, or was home the house where your grandparents lived
Where the air always felt lighter, and the stomach always fuller?

Perhaps home was the old coffee shop across the park where the people were always kind, or perhaps home was the library down the street where the stories never ended and magic was always within hand’s grasp.

Was home your country where the roads were always familiar
Or was home a foreign place, yet not explored?

Was home your mother who always calmed your heart, or was home your friend who stuck by you through thick and thin?

Was a home a building, a place, a time, or a person, yet not found?

How was anyone supposed to guide you to home
If you didn’t even know where home really was?

Free Verse · Free verse Poetry · micropoetry · Poetry · prose · sadness · self love · Uncategorized · Writing

The art I never was

I think I was only born
So I could create art

I think I was born
So I could write
And never be written about
So I could draw
And never be drawn
So I could paint
And never be painted
So I could photograph
And never be photographed

So I could feel
And make others feel
But never be felt for

Maybe I was just born
To create art
But to never be art

body image · Free Verse · Free verse Poetry · Poem · Poetry · prose · sadness · self love · words · Writing

The beautiful I was 

God I wish I was beautiful
I wish I was beautiful
In the conventional way
All light skinned
Hour glassed
Glossy cheeks
And red lips
The kind of beautiful
That turned heads in public places
The kind of beautiful
That drove girls
Wild with jealousy
And men
Wild with desire
The kind of beautiful
You found on the front page of magazines
The kind of beautiful
That you knew was beautiful
At first glance

Instead
I was just the beautiful
That was in my own way
The beautiful
You really had to look for
And dig deep to find
The beautiful
That only certain people saw
The beautiful
That didn’t catch eyes
Or turn heads
Or drive girls wild with jealousy
I was the beautiful
That didn’t really make me feel
All that beautiful
Most of the time

 

Free Verse · Free verse Poetry · love poem · mental health · Poetry · prose · ramblings · sadness · words · Writing

Poets are Liars

Don’t believe everything we say, we’re poets and we lie often. We put together flowery words intricately woven together to hold just enough depth and emotion to make your hair stand on ends, just enough to make your eyes gloss over with tears that had been locked away.
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We’ll tell you all kinds of things.
We’ll tell you
How some people are broken puzzles, crossing the earth to find missing pieces; pieces that will resonate with yours, making you believe it was you they had been searching for all along.
We’ll tell you
How there is beauty in pain, that scars heal and fix, that if you break, someone will be there to mend you and put you back together so beautifully you’ll wonder if you ever were really broken in the first place.
We’ll tell you
How love is nourishing and beautiful, that once it makes a home within you, you’ll never want it to leave. We’ll make you believe as if the colors will change and somehow the stars will shine even brighter than before.

Not surprisingly you’ll believe them all.

And one day
when your heart is breaking and you feel pain so raw it’ll gnaw at your skin,
you’ll realize
that the hurt you feel is vicious and ugly, you could dig a grave and still not find any beauty in it.
You’ll realize
that sometimes scars don’t really heal. That sometimes they stay as blurry lines across your skin and no remedy can mend the skin that was once broken so unapologetically.
You’ll realize
that the emptiness you feel is from the holes within you that could never be filled because you have lost things irreplaceable.
You’ll realize
that the colours don’t really change, the smog covered sky doesn’t part for the stars and the lights you see shining brighter are just street lights at a distance.
You’ll realize
that people don’t always stay when they see what a mess you are, sometimes the glue dries before you’re mended and pieces lost stay lost forever.
You’ll realize
that not all endings are supposed to be happy.

When all that dawns upon you
you’ll kick and curse yourself,
you’ll  wonder how you could have been so naive to sit in a dimmed coffee shop with pages of poetry strewn across
and believe every damned lie that was sprawled on them.

Originally posted on my Instagram

Love · prose · quote · ramblings · self love · Uncategorized · Writing

Appreciate Yourself

You don’t have to be soft and fragile and sweet, you can be hard and edgy and bitter. I know your eye lashes aren’t long enough and your eyes don’t exactly hhsparkle. Your skin flakes and your lips get chapped; you’re all kinds of flaws bundled into a package. You laugh loud and sit awkwardly and put flowers in your hair to make yourself feel pretty. You ask yourself questions you can’t answer, you lie to yourself too. You break hearts including your own again and again. You cry ugly then wipe your own tears.
So what if your eyes don’t hold stars and your smile is kinda wonky? So what if you don’t talk a lot and have a few friends? So what if you’re a hopeless romantic and he doesn’t want you? You’re bitten nails and messy hair and an unhealthy addiction to chocolate. There’s no other way to be you. You’re fucking art, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

 

Originally posted on instagram: https://www.instagram.com/p/BMrVcqwDWm-/