Formed from decorated scraps

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  • chezeriel 2w

    I've reached the point where
    I memorized every single colour
    based on the texture of their voices.
    Mama used to say, yellow is like my big sister,
    her voice, her cackles as lovely as ever can
    brighten up every corner of your gloomy mood.

    White, that's my pretty little brother.
    Listen to his tiny innocent voice,
    whether he's crying or laughing,
    you can sense the pureness among the pure.

    My father, as serious as red,
    you can feel it from his hollow and rigid voice
    snaking on the epidermis of your skin.
    For my mama, she never said what colour she is,
    but sometimes I think she's blue,
    I can feel it in her so serene voice,
    but most of the time I know she's silver-grey.
    Especially when at times I become like
    a starving montivagant,
    wanting to know and explore here and there,
    her patience is as long and as expandable
    as her silver-grey hair.

    But, on days when I can't feel the hues in their voices
    and other people that surrounds me, I colour myself,
    concocting all of them to form a rainbow
    I've heard how beautiful but never really seen.


    Seeing colours in the perspective of a blind girl.

    Trying to write my very first poem on this poetry writing month.��

    #napowrimo #colours #mirakee #writersnetwork

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    | I colour myself |

    On days when I can't see the hues
    in their voices, I colour myself.


  • chezeriel 4w

    I've borrowed happiness
    from poems that I've weaved.
    Jumping from syllables to syllables,
    creating little bliss with every similes.

    Crouching in a corner, fervently searching
    for words to play.
    I can't help but smile in each metaphors
    that rhymes. Clinging onto little joys
    within the imageries that lies between
    my fingers, pen and paper.
    Only a writer understands the pleasure
    of knowing that peaceful music underlying
    in their very own words.

    but then, again, each comma made
    me doubt and sigh, inevitably there's
    always gonna be a last fullstop.
    In the end, I'm gonna console myself to
    weave another poem, to again,
    borrow happiness, a classic shougania.


    Shougania is a japanese word means related to fate, or something that can't be helped.

    #worldpoetryday #mirakee #writersnetwork

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  • chezeriel 7w

    The Crows

    One, two ........three.

    My feet came to a halt, I watched the two crows cavort with each other not minding what the world think about them. Someone's gonna die, sighing, I continued my walk.

    I saw crows three times today, in different places and time. I certainly know someone who believes that crows are the mirror of death. Darkness enveloped the surroundings when I arrived home. My mom bathing in sweat preparing for dinner while my siblings busied themselves with their homework, my father, he's nowhere to be found.

    I kissed my mom on her cheek and went directly to the most visited room in our tiny house. The door was slightly ajar, and from a far I can hear the labored breathing of my bed-ridden grandmother. "Grandma." I said, her heavy lids slowly open to see me. She tried to give me a smile but failed, her body's too exhausted to even cast a smile. I went closer and give her a kiss. I plopped at the edge of her bed and stared for her a little longer, I noticed all her hair turned gray. It wasn't long ago when she was strong and was capable of giving me a proper beating. I smiled bitterly, life is truly unpredictable. I give her a soft pat on her shoulder before walking to the window, the cold breeze was oddly comforting. I reached for the window's lock and from my peripheral vision I saw another crow.

    I returned to my place in my grandmother's bed. "Grandma, I saw crows today." Suddenly I felt her calloused hand gripping tightly on my arm "More than three times" I continued. Her labored breathing becomes uneven wheezing and her grip becomes even more stronger, after a few minutes her grip came loose.


  • chezeriel 14w

    Ideas from her latest post @my_cup_of_poetry
    Your writings are commendable.��

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    His father brings
    home prejudices
    and racism two times
    a week. Forced him
    to heed and accept
    them as gift of knowledge.

    Her mother cooked
    bigotries five times a day.
    Persuaded her to
    eat them with closed
    eyes and be contented.

    Now, if liberalism surfaces
    from their skin like a disease,
    it's not their fault. They're
    constantly feed with hypocrisies.

  • chezeriel 22w

    Once I let the rain soaked me
    and I desperately searched the words
    to describe the aching longing of
    wanting to write but I couldn't find it.
    Words were trapped inside my head,
    they dance savagely and I end up
    scribbling incoherent sentences.

    Once I let the silence of three a.m.
    took over my sanity.
    And again, I failed to describe the
    reasons behind my tears.

    Sometimes words doesn't belong to me,
    I know when it's borrowed and
    when it's my own.


  • chezeriel 30w


    I forgot to thank you
    of your warm embrace
    on my empty heart.
    I forgot to thank you
    in the absence of happiness,
    you humbly offer yourself
    to fill the hole within my soul
    for me to realize I'm still alive.
    I know you're a good friend,
    you always gave my head a pat,
    my heart a kiss that's so deadly
    I feel suffocated.
    I failed to enjoy your presence,
    you're not yet around but
    I already hated you.
    You wouldn't blame me, will you?
    You're like a strict teacher,
    though your teachings are good
    I'm still scared of you.
    I admit, I'm not a good listener,
    giving you dead air, putting
    myself in isolation, then those
    people that loves me will know
    you're within me, they'll start
    hating you for putting me in misery.
    I had already forgotten to thank you
    and now I want people to despise you.
    I'm sorry.
    With an embarrassed heart
    and grieving conscience,
    lover of pleasure.


  • chezeriel 31w

    A poem begins as a memory
    and end up as a cry.


  • chezeriel 31w

    The cold metal kissing my forehead
    send shivers down my spine.
    His eyes screaming in anguish while
    mumbling incoherent harangue.

    I stand unable to move as he keep
    pointing the cocked gun on my
    sweating head. I closed my eyes,
    trying to remember how I end up
    my life in his hands.

    A little girl abandoned by an addict
    parents found an abode in those
    empty streets. With no one to seek
    help, she spend her life in those cold
    nights fighting for survival, until he
    came, the man who offered her care
    and affection.

    He spoke of love and happy home,
    sowing a little hope in her exhausted
    soul. She came to him like a tamed
    sheep hoping for brighter tomorrow.
    But it was all a fat lie, he made her
    intoxicated with drugs just like her
    parents did.

    A clanking sound made me open
    my eyes, the gun was left on the floor,
    thin arms embracing me so tightly
    and I heard him muttering apologies
    and I love yous endlessly.

    Again, I stand unable to move, my
    mind seems blank, I feel numb. I feel
    like a complete different person. I heard
    voices in my head, my parents' voice,
    his voice and my own demon's voice.
    They're fighting.

    In the end, beguiled by the susurrus of opium
    in my head, I'm the one who pulled the trigger.


  • chezeriel 32w

    I have a dream and it is all about Halloween.
    And in my dream I was crowned as a queen.

    Feeling all euphoric I started dancing,
    but a rotting smell from bloody Mary came to intervene.

    Who are you to take my throne humdrum?
    With her dripping nasty blood she ask in between.

    Rage slowly crept on my skin.
    Oh, you bloody urban legend pay respect for I am your queen.

    And then came to the rescue a cute slash creepy myling
    I say, "object and I'll make you a meal for my canteen!"

    Off the myling go, but a growling came in.
    Another antagonist, an angry wolverine.

    He growled and growled, but truth be told I don't understand a thing.
    Oh wolverine, can't you stay serene?

    And here comes another one, a late ghost.
    And so I asked "where have you been?"

    "That's none of your business dreamy mammoth.
    Wake up and disappear, I don't see you as a queen."

    I feel like hyperventilating, oh god, what is wrong with them?
    I am a great ruler but no one can possibly foreseen.

    Savage are the spooky people Michelle, eh.
    would you still want to be their Queen?



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    Savage are the Spooky People

    I thought humans
    are the only biotic components
    hard to deal with.
    I didn't knew spooky people
    also got an attitude.


  • chezeriel 32w

    Today I'm obliged to write a poem
    with all the wayward thoughts
    inside my head. I couldn't weave
    a group of words that can make
    up a sentence.

    It's Sunday, three thirty three a.m.
    The ticking of the ancient
    wall clock sounds disturbing.
    Fifty nine. Sixty.
    A minute passed, another mountain
    of crumpled paper laying proudly
    unto the dirty cobbled floor.

    I have a knack for reckoning
    a concept of what to write,
    but none of them seems
    to work this time.
    Desperate to find an idea,
    I rummage through torn pages
    of manuscripts long way forgotten.
    A sparkling silver nib caught
    my attention, a pen with
    an eye catching beauty.
    An old form of writing
    decorating its body,
    the intricate detail of hue
    concoction adding wonders
    to its appearance.

    "Magnificent." I mumbled,
    for years of living in this
    old mansion never have I
    thought I can find another treasure
    hidden together with my rubbish.

    And then suddenly an idea came in,
    like a basin full of water and
    is now overflowing. I run back
    to my desk and prepare to write.
    "Scribbling till death"
    what a title, intriguing.

    An hour passed,
    my hand too tired to write further,
    but the pen wouldn't let me stop.
    Suddenly I notice the change of
    colour spreading beautifully
    unto the yellow paper,
    from black to burgundy red ink,
    I find it so astonishing before
    I realized the red ink was my blood.
    Horror crept inside me.

    My left hand turning pale with the
    slowly disappearance of my blood
    in my body. Managing in collecting
    my senses, I tried to read what
    I'm currently writing.
    "a poet with no thoughts to
    write is now scribbling
    the poem of his death.
    Each word lustfully drinking his blood,
    one by one until the last drop, gone."