The Diary of a Late Bloomer (90)

Well it kind of hurts when the kind of words you write

Kind of turn themselves into knives

—-

But no, I’m not graceful. I got the worst of both worlds: I hit the ground hard and completely off balance.”

Call it friction

Call it friction

He goes hither

She goes thither

He goes upward

She goes downward

He is living glittery

She is walking jittery

How to coin contrary

She is scattered

She leaves her wit somewhere

She becomes bitter

Angst intensifies

Gloom intensifies

Confusion intensifies

What a damn are these butterflies

He warns to lessen

It was probably falsified

It was probably mystified

She runs, runs keen and crash

She ruined and hit the grass

She wishes the wind carries the blown kisses

So subtle and gentle

In her mind makes mantle humble but still stumble

Advertisements

The Diary of a Late Bloomer (76)

Petrichor

It is raining hard and harsh it makes cacophony sound to the ears

But always the smell after its weary of tearing brings serene on the contrary

It offers solace so comforting

It shows contact the above to the beneath

It shows the connection of the impossible

It makes evident and tangible what most have been doubting ever occur

It conveys the unspoken and what couldn’t be utter

It reaches out to the hope of the ground

That the voices heard, the longing requited

The Diary of a Late Bloomer (66)

In my search for freedom and peace of mind

I have left the memories behind

She lost in sircular wander

Threw out glares what seemingly static outside the window

Along with it, she guided stark firm by luminous force

The view of neighborhood rooftops accompanied by shifted cloudy skies

as it changed forth its clothes; most probably weary

She left far back her heart but she didn’t yet realize what’s coming next

Not until she made a stolen tilt; the soul in her thought sit ever so solemnly undistorted

It amused her but left her wanting more in constant glaring of remembrances

Finding an excuse of her own made okay

There is so much still to explore.”

On the long journey of two, where the story first began

—-

We will wait for our faith, ’cause nobody owns us”, we are born a singleton through the carrier of the mother womb, and we will die as one stark naked. We are entitled to our chosen endeavours. We are given inscribed values throughout our continuously evolving identities. Only to the omnipotent, the first mover of everything that exist should we feel like owing the given breathing. But even so, nobody owns us but ourselves. And that someday, we are facing our faith. All light. All bright. All right.