Wilted Words

I want to talk about my sadness. But my sadness is a rude distant relative that has no business in my house, yet insists on staying and interfering with every small detail of my life. My sadness is a predator that has claimed me as a prey, a malicious vicious killer that hunts for the fun of the chase, and when I finally landed in its clutches it toyed with me, tossing me around, yawning, bored at my lack of resistance. My sadness is the clique of girls who bullied me through elementary school, middle school, high school and when I run into them somewhere a few years later I greet them casually because I am a grown up and I am mature and I have put it all behind me, pretending they weren't one of the reasons I am mesirable. My sadness is a grave I dug with my bare hands in a cold hard ground of a wasteland to bury it but instead I fell into it, and got buried where there is no tombstone for recognition. My sadness is treacherous and cruel, sometimes it allows me to go about...

I adjusted the lighting of room ten times already, changed the place of my chair around my desk, tried different pens, different journals, different words to start with but all I have is nothing. This is the result of a monotonic life. A routine that is comfortable and convenient, yet dull and rather grey. I wake up around the same time everyday, go to work, do the same things, see the same people, do the same chores, walk the same streets, pass the same allies, listen to the same songs, sleep around the same time, when sleep comes, that if it does. I don't knows what it is that keeps me awake, that triggers a cascade of overthinking episodes. For someone who merely does anything new, or feels anything new or exciting anymore, I certainly think a lot. In my transition from an overly emotional and sympathetic person to a more concrete and grounded person, I think I have lost my ability to express myself. I am afraid that I no longer have it in me, the passion that once filled m...

My ink stained fingers tremble as I write this. A memoir for my thoughts, for the empty life I lead, for all the things I felt, the things I never dared to say. Here on this paper my thoughts lay, rest in chaos, intersecting thought, incomplete and confused. I don't think I am making any sense but that is not the point to begin with. The longing to belong to something or to someone is draining me. I can't shake the feeling of oddness and of being out of place. These thoughts are a bed of nails that I sleep in every night. They sting my flesh and I lay there and bleed . I often wonder why does the world hate me so much? Or more accurately why doesn't it accept me as I am. As I take a look back at my weak attempts at anything, I realize that maybe I am the problem. After all how do I expect the world to give me love when I can't give it back? Except that..... I can. I am overflowing with love that I have no one to give to, I am a vessel, filled to the brim with...

fear, is a small creature, A parasite, living off your hopes, crippling you, an ever persistent voice in your head, it's a sly cunning being too, an illusive being, one that will mimic your own voice, and whisper all kind of unkind things to you. I know you are trying to run away, to turn your head and pretend that you don't see it hovering over your head, you try to cover your ears when it talks, to muffle its voice but that rarely helps. you can pretend and pretend but it will always be there, and the worst of them all is the fear of not being good enough, the fear that you're unworthy of what you want, This voice will convince you that it is easier to give up it is easier to not try to begin with. fear, is being locked in a prison of your own making with the keys a few inches away from you but still you won't reach for it. it is the constant reminder of how wrong things could go, it is the fuel for your cowardice. and I am not blaming you here, I under...

I was a quiet child, but I had a beautiful singing voice, Or so I believed. My voice was soft, and my words were shy like a five years old kid hiding behind her mother and clutching her elbow at first day of school, I couldn't hit high notes and my vocal range had limitations but that never stopped me, At least I had rhythm and I memorised lyrics easily, I grew up, and voice submerged beneath all the insecurities, I am more quiet and I no longer believe that my voice is beautiful, And my words, My words almost never mean what I want to say, They are deceiving, Every time I speak they promise that this time they're going to come out exactly as I mean them but they don't, They throw me under the big yellow bus, They cluster in my throat and push other words out, They ring the doorbell and run fast and I get caught, They never call for truce, So I decided to become silent, I nod yes, I shake my head no, I say the bare minimum to communicate, When the waiters...

The world blurs and melts, indicating the start of the ending, the world falls into mass chaos, after slowly dripping into an oozy thick black deliquescent substance, slipping through my own fingers, liquid suffering covering my hands, guilt..  for all the things I am feeling, for all the things I am not, for all the skeletons hanged in my closet, for all the hostages of secrets, terrified and loud in spite of how many times I stifle their noises. for all the dead thoughts, stagnant and sordid in spite of being buried miles within me. I have got miles and miles of skin, but it's transparent windopane, and there is no point of hiding that circus of crazed mess, it's on full display.  it's my shadow of an entourage, it's everything I am, it's everything I am not. it's the things I fear, it's my  loneliness  solitude, I am losing my mind in this murky place, I am on my way I am lost.  with no destination, no direction, I am being devoured by...

With you, it's like every cliche I have ever seen in every chic flick movie. I feel the giddiness of an eleven years old girl when she catches the boy she likes from school staring at her across the hall. With you, It's every cheesy line I have ever heard in a pop song. I become the fidgety thirteen years old teenager when her crush asks to borrow her notes. With you, I am so aware of my being, I am so aware of your presence. When I am in the most crowded places with you, you're the only one I see. When we're dancing clumsily, singing off-key, driving around the city aimlessly, idling around the small park in our town, or even watching some lame TV show that we both secretly dislike, these moments mean so much more to me than you could ever imagine, Because of you. The lulling sound of your voice, The freckles on your face, The way your thoughts form and the way you're so discreet about your feelings, You're so familiar to me now. I have you memori...

It all seems worthless after a while. Remember that well, because it's a common thing to occur in your life span. It is a vicious cycle, constant de ja vu, where things go wrong and then go right, Things go horribly wrong, but then the world tries to make amends by tipping the scale and granting you small victories. Congratulations! You didn't kill y ourself today. Look at you! You managed to leave your house and laugh when all you wanted to hide and weep. Those little victories, make all the difference. Although, often, our battles do not leave us unmarked. They're like a predator marking their territory. They leave you with burdens you can't carry, Secrets you can't share, Memories you're constantly trying to forget, Every time they bring a different kind of ache to your heart, one that you seldom stomach, And I know that you mostly wonder, What's the whole point ? What's the point of wanting what you can't have ? Trying over and ov...

First, I have to get out of this place, I have to leave this claustrophobic room, I am already at the door, Please forgive me. I have only a moment to reflect on the pain before it engulfs me, The accompanying humiliation will not allow me much more than that, A traitor, Who doesn't deserve to live, I am so stunned that for a moment I can't even move, We don't forgive. I am pressing my fist to my mouth, Because truth is, I am nothing but a coward, And some days I wonder why I insist on keeping myself alive. I take another steady breath, You'll be alright, we promise. I am no longer feeling gracious. I am surprised to discover how much I enjoy the bitterness. I fall against the wall and crumble to the floor, I collapse, But now, they're here, They're holding guns, And pointing it at my head, Pointing it at my heart, What is happening to me ?

I have lost my words. I lost them somewhere in a pile of papers, unfinished, scribbled down on pages, discarded, like a neglected child. I have lost my voice. I think I have lost it in a canyon with no echo, or maybe I've forgotten that I have one to begin with, how can I dare to speak when I know everything coming out of my mouth is a failed attempt of tenderness ? I think I have lost my mind. Trying to figure out how to be. The riot of emotion in side my chest hurts , and my soul is bruised. The constant battle is wearing me out, Draining me, Drowning me. I don't know how to breathe, I don't know how to be. With so many rules set out, and so many laws I seem to be ignorant of, I have lost so many times, Against the people I love, Against myself, Against the world. I try to tell myself that I am okay. Like useless words of condolences coupled with genuine sympathy, I tell myself that I will be okay, Like the frail promise of cure to a terminal illness, ...

I am not going to lie this time, or deny the truth that's been staring right at me for so long, I am not going to overlook what seems to be undisputed. the truth, they say, hits you when you least expect it, it doesn't blindside you, though, because you have no one else to blame but your self. you weren't prepared, whether you like it or not, the time has come. you can't run away, you can't hide of what's been haunting you, taking away your peace, robbing you of your safe and sound sleep, you think time can heal you, but I am afraid, time is not on your side on this one, all you have is the truth that you are trying to ignore, Along with the unforgiving memories and thoughts, not allowing you to have closure, not redeeming you of your own doubts and mistakes, no matter how sorry you are, no matter how many times you utter words of apology, there are things you can't erase, there are things you can't undo. This is the truth that bites...

This world is beautiful, But it's a poem that everyone interpret in their own unique way, So often I encounter people who can't see beyond the bubble they locked themselves into. The world is such a beautiful place, so often people take its beauty for granted, Or they don't even see it, They don't bother to look, And no one is truly happy with what they have, They get caught up in prisons of their own making, Mothers are grumpy, Fathers are angry, Workers are tired and desperate, Teenagers are lost, Kids are learning the wrong things. All the young ones are chasing clouds of dreams, Chasing things they can't have. And the world is beautiful but it is doomed, When no one cares to make it a better place, The world is coming to an end.

My heart beats sounds like a drum in my ear and I am taking short shallow breaths to steady my self. I hide in the bathroom but it's pointless, even if I stay here for an hour it won't calm me down. I look at the mirror and I hope I don't look as nervous as I feel. I picked up this outfit a week ago, when you called me and told me you wanted to finally meet me. My nerves got the best of me and I think about leaving, What if he doesn't like what he sees ? A hundred things could go wrong, but it's too late to back down you'd be here any minute. I check my face for the third time, inspecting my features as if they were foreign, I hope I am not wearing too much makeup or too little. I want to be just about right. I wash my hands without necessity and I head out. Calm down . I try to match the rhythm of my heart to my steps, slow and steady. And I catch a glimpse of you. You walk in the front door elegantly, not a weight on your shoulder. The l...

As I look at the shoe box hidden under my bed, I wounder, how absurd it is to try to tuck someone's entire existence in such a small space. How could all the memories fit there, all the thoughts and late night conversations, All the fears, the nicknames, the inside jokes, And the secret codes. They are just ink on paper now. They're just soft whispers that I barely remember, They're nothing but remnants of a dead body of the love that we murdered. I don't dare glance or stare at it, This box, Is the monster under my bed. This box, Is the voices in my head. Of maybes and what ifs, Of what could've been said or done. Of the words we couldn't say, And the things we shouldn't have said. And still, I wonder, Will I ever be while again ? Will I ever have the heart to erase your memory, And create myself again, Apart from you. Will I ever stop searching for myself between your words ? I can't be the only one living like this, I don't ...

In a year or two, none of this will matter. It might take longer than you expect, or maybe it won't take as long as you might think it would, after all, time is a man made concept, and anticipation seems to alters the duration of waiting for things to end or begin. There are a few things, though, that would help you endure the following sufferings,  The suffering of maybe . .. The uncertainty.. The doubts creeping up on you every day, every minute, every second... The potent yet pale fear of not ever being who you want to be and that all your efforts and attempts are futile and the you will never be enough... The unfamiliarity of how cruel and uneducated or indifferent you are some times, The strangeness of your own self some times, Or how you tuck your flaws and enemies safely in your bed every night, snoring, non bothered and insolent, not allowing you a good night sleep. The enormity of these things will overwhelm you, at some days, I am not going to lie to you. These...

It all ends in a haze. The rush of adrenaline, No longer existing, The memories fading They fade, Gradually, The withdrawal symptoms persisting and everlasting. It all starts there In a swarm of bustling voices, Where the intersecting chatter clusters in the air, Rapidly, Making up a dense veil of all kinds of conversations. Two sets of eyes make a brief eye contact, That lingers, But unlike chick-let movies, Time doesn't pause and the earth doesn't stop rotating and butterflies don't flutter gently in thier stomachs. Two sets of lips say familiar words that feel foreign, Unlike the secrets they once shared and the kisses they once stole, All words stop at Hello. Two sets of limbs once intertwined with the promise of forever, Now wave awkwardly at each other, Not daring to do more than that. Two bodies keeping the right distance of strangers, Not daring to inch closer, Not even an inch , Fearing the overwhelming surge of wanting to be closer than t...