[tenderwatches]

sometimes you need dialogue tags and don't want to use the same four

[hwhwgwhnwnwbwbwg-deactivated202]

“There’s an opposite to déjà vu. They call in jamais vu. It’s when you meet the same person or visit places again and again,but each time is the first . Everybody is always a stranger. Nothing is ever familiar.”

-Chuck palahniuk

[daweyt]

— Frank Bidart, from “Half-light: Collected Poems 1965-2016; ‘In The Ruin."

[toastbutteregg]

[mwaheherawr]

I look at the temple of my golden faith, crumbled pillars, rotting altar. Oh saints with price tag- 

Enlighten me, where must my hope reside? What shall I call the emperors masquerading as God?

What will I get from the fruit of patience? A seed that dies before it bows on soil of my land?

Draped in moon-bathed silk- marches fire of the tyrant, humming lullaby of incredible serenity-

Say, how must I worship my Lord, when the world buries him under the mud just to walk astray?

To what extent will God forgive a believer, who gets tired and rushes out quitting every other day?

What mural must I trace to know the history that has faded long ago or maybe just never existed?

I wonder what the Doom's day hold for me, a shiny gate leading to clouds or a pit of raging fire?

I wonder what if it'll be neither? To what God will I weep to, if it's just a hollow abyss at the end?

But what if I must scrape off the skin of my knees on the ground for questioning the master of all?

Mother told you're the kindest, so tell me, will you forgive me for questioning whether you're kind?

If not, what will you make of me? If not, what saint must I become for the forgiveness of the holiest?

[mwaheherawr]

Kinda specific yet random things that make me happy:

Men trying to control their giggle but can't.

After-shower droplets of water trailing down on my skin.

Babies excitedly extendeding arms to jump from a person's lap to another.

Mum oiling and braiding my hair while we're chatting about some silly stuff.

Dad tellimg me stories about how he bunked school to watch the movie of his fav actor.

My grandmother kissing my hand everytime I help her, even with the smallest things.

My grandfather singing his fav old song and saying how the song of his times were better.

My younger sister scrunching her nose looking at any animal she finds cute.

Unwrapping a gift I got or parcel that I ordered online.

Giving people medieval-like decorated letters.

[mwaheherawr]

When I was in 8th grade my classmate brought a small plant to school after vacation. We kept it near the window. It was beautiful, I used to look at it whenever the lectures got boring. I took care of it just as much and sometimes even more, than the girl who planted it. Taking care was new but something sweet for me. Once I took leave from school for a day, so the next day I watered the plant twice as much as I should've thinking I was making up for my absence. I did not make up for my absence. I killed it. And when the teacher asked who over-watered the plant. I confessed I did. The whole class frowned upon me, they thought I killed it for fun. I wanted to tell everyone that I did it out of love. I also wanted to cry. But most of all, I wanted to prove my love for it. But killing something out of love, is still a murder, isn't it? 

God, I believe this is all I'll ever be- Kind and Cruel.

[mwaheherawr]

"God, poets have written a billion times what loving a friend is like, some warned us, some called it a lie- But here's the thing, if love and friendship is a lie you tell , it's a lie i would forever believe in."

-Excerpt from a letter I wrote to my bestrfriend on her birthday.

[mwaheherawr]

The small trinket in his pocket: He doesn't like looking at it, but takes it everywhere. He flinches when his fingers mistakenly brush against the surface of it, yet whenever anxious, he searches for it in the pocket. You see, there's a certain paradox memories create- you cannot remember the ache and forget the love. You also cannot remember the love and forget the ache. You have to suffer the remnant taste of both. You must choke on the poison you want to savour the taste of. That's how stories go. That's how they always have- like a small trinket in the pocket. The trinket one doesn't like looking at but walk everywhere with. 

[mwaheherawr]

You deserve the kind of love where she traces the lines of your palm with her fingers. Where she blushes simply thinking about how you smile. Where her hands play with your hair and you get kisses that startle you. You're the kind to be worshipped when loved. To be missed at every second you deprive her of your presence. To be desired like breathing- constantly, even when unconcious. To be seen like poetry and songs. You're made for glances in crowd, warm hands on cold neck, fingers interwined, resting head on her thighs. You're made to be loved as if to leave room for no more; Yet making an unbreakable promise- "if there was a way to love you more, you'd be loved more". You deserve the kind of love where she traces the lines of your palm with her fingers and tells, what great kind of a love you're made for.

[mwaheherawr]

I don't remember a lot of things from my childhood, but there's a memory from when I was in first grade I still remember it very clearly. We were about to have our winter vacation and excited, I was talking to my friend about it. I didn't realize the teacher had entered the class, but she noticed me when I was asking my friend why she became so quite suddenly. My teacher angry at how I disrespected her by talking 'knowing' that she's there, punished me. She ordered me to stand raising my hand vertically above my head for a whole period of fourty-five minutes. It was easy for the first five minutes, then I started getting tired and requested her to forgive me just this time. She did not and warned me to stand erect. After about twenty mintues it became very easy, I started feeling like I don't need to use any strength to keep my hands straight they were doing that on their own. Then about half an hour later, my teacher asked me to sit down and never talk  again while she's in the class, I promised not to. But that's when the worst part of the whole punishment came- moving my hands down from the air. I had felt my muscles clench as I pulled my arms down. I did not cry during those thirty minutes, but then, it all seemed unbearable. My teacher confusingly inquired why I was crying since the punishment was already over. I did not know what to tell her. I couldn't utter a word for back then, I knew no words that would express what my tears were for. My body simply couldn't handle what I wished for. Now looking back I realize, that's what has shaped me into what I'm today- I've become someone who runs from things I also desire, for I fear now that they're in my reach It would cause nothing but ache. That little memory which was supposed to hold no meaning in my life, is all what I remember of my childhood now- A foolish girl who doesn't know why she aches gaining peace.

[mwaheherawr]

[mwaheherawr]

I like to imagine there's someone talking to the moon, while the moon is laughing at how I talk about the same things... I hope the rain remembers me when someone sings the song I used to. I wish my scent reminds the winds of someone miles away. I really like to believe I reside in earth's memory and so does someone else as soulmates. Please God, tell me the world claps for the star-crossed lovers.

[mwaheherawr]

There's some tragedy a daughter has to suffer living in the house of a proud man. You'll be brought up like a lady- poise an beautiful but dare you be anything other than an obeying son. You'll be asked to touch the moon but also make sure you walk like a swan. There's a thing that shakes up the soul of a daughter each day- a father who believes he loves the right way. A mistake, a flaw, a stain on the rug of spilled tea from the tray she held- that's all her purpose will ever be. She'll weep in the corner of her bedroom locking the door then be scolded for her swelled eyes because "strong people don't cry" and "such eyes don't look pleasing'. No matter if the father leaves or the daughter does- the burning house will forever claw to the ashes of the two unholy tragedies- an proud man and a tragic daughter.

[mwaheherawr]

I'M LIKE A SHOWPIECE

In this big house I'm like a mundane showpiece

A porcelain grey vase posing over the table

Until the visitor admires, unnoticed I be

Or unnoticed, until I wear my owner's brag label

And no I don't have a sentimental value

But I'm expensive; and beautiful too

And to think, when the guest will leave 

Again, unnoticed I'll be left alone to grieve

For this is what I am; Like a showpiece.

Meant to be showed off, Meant to be proud of;

I'm meant to pose, and nothing more.

Stand there like a flawless showpiece.

For unnoticed I shall grieve,

When the visitor leaves.

[mwaheherawr]

CANDLES IN MY ROOM

All those candles lit in my room, I put off one of them each year.

Eighteen down, many more to go. With each, darker my room grows.

It sacres me when I blow the candle out, I wish time could just stop-

Or I wish maybe I could just blow all of them at once. For once.

The sound of my mother's knock on the door, is fading with years.

She tells me, one day she will be incapable to even knock anymore.

God, was growing old supposed to be this hard? This achingly cold?

Can I just sit on that swing forever? Or maybe just for a few more years?

Please, I beg you. Don't let my room go darker, I don't want to leave-

Atleast, not until I'm bored of looking at the same walls and roof.

Can you let me stay warm in here? And then just freeze me quickly?

Why do I have to grow cold first? Why can't I be just frozen at once?

All those candles lit in my room, can't I put them off at once?

Eighteen down, many more to go. Can it not be dark until it has to be?

God, tell me, will you let me be a child. Until this forever ends?

Can you let me simply live my life until death comes at my door?

[mwaheherawr]

My grief glanced at your grief, and it was peeking at mine.

Their gaze met. And so they wondered how are they alike?

They spoke to each other, so softly. Almost unreal for me.

Both talked like how I once wished you could speak to me,

They consoled each other like how you wished she would've.

Their kindness made me crave it all. It made me crave for it-

as much as to spill my guts out disguisted by the sight of it.

Now tell me, it bothers you too, as it bothers me, doesn't it?

Our grievances seem to have forgotten who gave birth to them-

But I remember it all by heart. And I know, you verily do it too.

Tell me, my darling mother, shall I remind them or will you do?

Say, who will scrape the old wounds this time? who'll reveal-

"You are born through the womb of a grieving daughter of 

a grieving mother, that was once a mother's daughter too."