There’s nothing in the world that couldsurprise us like the seeds we planted butfailed to check its growth continuously.
Perhaps, if I go quiet,I wouldn’t have anything to say.Words are but thoughtswith a name. They’ll disappear.
Scars: the stories left behind bywounds time didn’t wait for.
Lost for words,I looked at you;hoping you’d figurewhat I had to tell.Clueless, you shrugged at me;your mouth stuffed withshameless words thatwear sunglasses to bed.Hesitant of risking a goodbye,I hid under the bedsteadand fell into a slumber.Now that I have words—and that you are “missing”—I may get out of the dazeI put myself in.
I hate to bring it up,but world, you owe memy peace of mind.
What good is a thoughtif it doesn’t grow wingsand escape my mind?
Kindest wounds are thosethat hurt but doesn’t leave a scar behind; burns but can’tbe treated with a salve, andstays forever as a reminder.
Hurt me kindly.I will take your kindnessand leave behind thehurt, swan-like.
It shouldn’t be this hardto be heard. Had I made thisworld, I would have given the wind ears, so people like mewouldn’t have to becomebroken writers.
I have no good reason to be here.But I show up because it’s the onlyplace I have a shot at finding one.