11:11s.

There are some things that bother me every night after 2 AM, after I listen to music with lyrics that do nothing except reminding me that you’ll never be mine.

It bothers me that I’ll never love someone this way ever again. Love changes everyday, and it bothers me that you’ll never be my constant. Someday, I might love someone else a little more than I love you, but I really don’t want to. I don’t want to fall in love with a brighter smile or a less scarred hands. Why would I when I can read your stories on your wrists in beautiful ink? Why would I when I can feel this strongly for someone so beautiful?

It bothers me that my wish of you being my first kiss will remain a wish. The world is not a wish granting factory after all.

It bothers me that I’ll never be someone you text when your hands fumble and your lips tremble and your sight blurs. It bothers me that I’ll never enter your mind when you want someone to talk to. I know I don’t deserve it, but when has that ever stopped anyone? When has worth ever weighed more than love?

It bothers me that every time you ask me something, I don’t know what to say.
When you wonder if you’re my muse, should I say that I write about you all the time, should I tell you that you’re my broken promises, 11:11s, the reason I believe in love, and my muse or just say that I write about you sometimes?

It bothers me that my always will never be your someday.


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It’s okay.

Go ahead.
Stand taller than everyone else,
Fall apart.
Feel afraid, or
Alone
Among smiles of
Chapped lips
And wrinkled eyes.
Speak out
Tell us what’s right,
Share your dreams
Nightmares, or
stories of your petty fights.
Praise every other heart that still beats,
And love the music
Pumping through your veins,
Just like it is,
Through every one else’s.
Let your hands fumble on the knob,
And your heart break.
Feel dead,
And then come back to life.
Smile,
Frown.
Be happy at times.
And at times don’t be afraid
to drown.
Do it all, love.
It is okay.


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Painting.

Black skies
With greying clouds of hair
Plastered to the sand dunes
That stretch down to where
two thick and furry cats lay.
Their tails spread graciously,
Just above the eyes.
Two distant planets,
Beyond understanding, and reach
Sparkle like a star under
The tails of the beings.
The tails touch each other,
At weird crooks and crevices,
So oddly
That surely they’ve been plucked.
Under the stars,
are heavy brown valleys,
With stories untold
awaiting poets.
The valleys vanish as a tall moutain
Strangely made of sand,
Stands right in the center
Of this very beautiful land.
It has no trees, or any signs of habitat.
To descend the mountain,
It would take a steep fall
But the landing will be soft
On the dying greyish-black bushes.
Pink lips,
and rivers inside
Will be where you’ve covered
The journey.
As you look around,
At the sand-paper landscapes,
You’ll be in awe,
For it was just a face
That you saw.


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Whisky flowers.

“She’s at peace, and yet somehow on fire.” – Samantha King

She’s the flower you give to your Valentine. She’s gorgeous and she just always smells so good?
She’s the scotch whisky you drink at a meeting. She makes you feel alive, and makes you forget everything wrong with you and this world.
She’s the autumn tree with golden leaves. She makes the world more beautiful than you could have imagined.
She’s a Polaroid. You just want to look at her forever even though she isn’t perfect. She makes you love photographs.
She’s the Henley that you wear on a date. She makes you look good, and keeps you warm inside.
She’s the mirror that you so often stare at. She helps you find mistakes that your own eyes couldn’t see.
She’s the star. She lights up, turns into fire and brings the world moments of ecstasy.
She is fire. She will burn you down, or warm you up. She will light the city on fire and have no difficulty whatsoever.
She’s a sword. The same sword your frantic eyeballs and sweaty palms try to find before the dragon wipes your existence.
She is the loyalty, grit and grace you need to be a man.
She’s the queen that has nurtured the deserving and cut in half the men who has tried to harm her or her people.
She is the cherry wine you drink with so much haste, not realizing it might be one of the finest you could ever have.
She is the knight beneath the heavy armors and metal helms. She fights monsters and demons and men. She cannot be defeated.
She is the beauty and the beast.
She is the #MeToo that should have shaken your existence, and filled you with shame. She makes you look good. What do you do?


Previous post : Midnight. 
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Midnight. 

It’s late, and I’m still thinking about you.

​”I am addicted.
She is my bottle of vodka.
She is my cookie crumbs.
She is the eighth colour of my rainbow.
The colour that’s everywhere,
Except inside the rainbow.
She is my three A.M.
The three A.M. pain I write about,
And the three A.M. calls I don’t make.
She is my happy ever after.
The happy ever after in a fairytale,
In those tales for my three A.M. kid,
In those stories for my four A.M. demons,
In those lullabies for my five A.M. drowsy eyes.
She is my sushi.
She is my ‘one eyelash – one wish’.
She is my 11:11 ‘Wish, please come true’.
She is my cigarette.
Here’s the fucking problem.
I’m addicted.
And she’s my nicotine patch.”


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