[happyeyi-blog]

[happyeyi-blog]

I'm starting to read the poems you wrote for her. With bitter bottle of beers. It was good… Or should I say With a wild smile that; You really have began writing. I tried to swim the deepness of your waking thoughts and the truth between every lines. And I end up drowning… With blurred eyes; I'm not sure how longer I can go but let me choke myself once more. I'm no feeling better; My desperate spirit is awfully assuming that it's still me. Just maybe, who would have known? Right? But I'm a literal cliché --- and she is the period who will complete the first and last excerpts of your most awaited piece. I am a flower picked for it's beauty but left to die and she is a rose kept behind every pages of the books. You love her right? Tell me I am listening…

[happyeyi-blog]

[happyeyi-blog]

I warn you. She's not like the rest of them darling. She's a literal catalyst. She see's beauty in insanity. A congenital weirdo. In between wounds and cures. Whims and woes. Puzzle and clues. A red violet ukulele Never set perfectly. But you knew; She could still play in harmony. She's on the edge. Ready to take a fall. But they gave her wings. While she expects for hearts. She felt homesick; For a place she didn't sure exists. She let her tears run. As fast as she might forget. She speak with trees. Patiently waiting to exhale words. Yet still a girl in a farm With no great stories to tell. But she will never stop selling. Until she finds a prose. Out of this maze. So leave.. if you won't buy it. Close the book; If you only aim to browse. Close the door; if you can't love her in the open. She don't need stars. If you can't kiss her on the daylight. For she is a beauty of all the galaxies put together in one soul. So never fix her. Don't you even dare. Forget about her was. Unlearn her future. The flaws; Maybe slightly asking for forgiveness. But her extensive damage. Is indeed a beauty after tragedy.

IRREPARABLE ✨

[happyeyi-blog]

[happyeyi-blog]

People, love, and dreams always rip our hearts. Unpredictable life indeed. Whether meant to be. I’m no longer enamored. Anyways, the poison of loneliness is now damaging every parcel of my rotted soul. And after that, I learned to lock my doors, spending the days and nights holding hands with my pen and making love with my papers. I started to write invisible poems. A lost slave of poetry yet - ruler of her own story. Blame it on I missed you. Blame it on I hate you. Blame it on the incessant pain that cries inks and words I never imagined I could win. I’ll write how your running selfishness kills me and how much proud you are. How I met those beast and monsters after making love with you. And how I almost died chasing them alone. Then read how I disposed all the blindfolds You stuck in my eyes and where I placed all those cracks Forever begging to be healed. Just in case you want to ask for forgiveness and remember how it all feels too… that’s the least you can do, but I doubt it. Nobody will ever understand. Not even you. Not even this life. Not even my alter ego. Not even the ones who is aching for same ache. Or either the ones who’s praying for same mercy.

METAMORPHOSE

[happyeyi-blog]

[happyeyi-blog]

I’m not sure how to explain it yet. But you just brought me somewhere else. A place where confusions keeps spinning in my head. Please do not come often. Please refrain from bringing me between my phobia and my ecstasy. Sometimes, I get exhausted embracing doors that keeps holding me still. But my poor soul is still clueless about the complete procedure of what you call happiness. So please.. just let me run away…

[happyeyi-blog]

It’s been 60 days since the world stole my remaining innocence. I was savaged and I was left clueless on how to combat its ravaging effect. I’m soon leaving 22 still torn between learning from the status quo or letting it discover the other version of me. But what it meant to grow when every second is like stealing my breath once more? What it meant to wake up and felt like being buried again with the same ghost? I look in the mirror and saw how much I fight for myself. How much untold stories were hidden in my own laughs. I drank too much expectation from this planet. I ate too much trust that one day I’ll awake brave to understand. So I write two prose a day. So I could show you my mind. So I could lend you my shoes. And welcome you in my trails. I write in the quiet corner of my room. To expose every dead bones and weak muscles I have. Hey, there’s something in my visible inks. So please read between the lines…