Endless night bullies my soul
Leaving me with qualms instead of hope
Quiver and gather courage to stand
Shoveling roads with my own two hands
In the pitch black dark I saw a ray
Bright enough to light my way
When the moon erased from the sky
The brightest star was in your eyes
Continue reading “A Love Poem: The Brightest Star”
A year and a half ago, I was asked to describe myself as a writer during a team writing workshop held by my then-boss. This is what I penned down.
I often find myself wondering if writing is all I truly have to offer to this world. Or maybe I’ve been asking myself the wrong questions all along.
Q: Who am I as a writer?
A: To be fairly honest and precise: Insecure. It is a strange sort of a relationship where writing makes me incredibly nervous. So, I know what you’re thinking, why would I pursue something that terrifies me? Well, because it’s the very thing that simultaneously brings me peace. And isn’t that what we are all eventually after?
The sweet smell of nothingness
I like it
But it taunts me
I crave it
But it pawns me.
The sweet sight of emptiness
I brave it
But it fought me
I fill it
But it locks me.
The sweet sound of hollowness
I welcome it
But it haunts me
I caress it
But it stabs me.
The sweet touch of bareness
I call it
But it mocks me
I want it
And it has me.
I’ve been cleaning out my closet… not figuratively, quite literally. I’ve been physically going through all the crap I’ve accumulated over 28 years of living. I’ll be moving out soon and I find myself holding on this aforementioned crap harder than ever. I haven’t even packed a little because the hoarding is a genuine problem.
Hoarding is also amazing. I’ve found so many forgotten things including a long exercise book. It’s hardbound and horrendous looking in green and yellow. Inside are meticulously number poems and self-pep talks from a teenage me. As I sat crossed leg on the cold floor of my lil’ bedroom, I flipped through pages of a young girl I don’t remember but somewhat recognise. It’s a fairly angst filled except I don’t remember the backstory/inspiration of each poem. I barely even remember who it’s for.
Want to hear the best part? It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s for me and now as I share this petite poem on this tiny blog… it’s for you.
Continue reading “Journal: All In The Name”