Dramatique

 I dreamt of daisies and fairytales, Of love that didn’t need to hide. Soft touches, stolen glances, Moments kept where hearts reside.

 I dreamt of being one’s first kiss, Wrapped in the warmth of sunsets, Nervous glances, blushed cheeks, Yet always the second chapter at best.

 I dreamt of roses and moonlight, Love that never slept in shade, Gentle openings, a quiet claim, Or was it only my heart betrayed?

 I dreamt of magical fantasies, Of threading into your life so deep, But you built walls like frozen seas, And I never learned how to leap.

 I dreamt of love as a sacred flame, Of feelings, trust, and care. Oh, how my definitions shifted, When I was left wretched and bare.

Here, but not home...

I’m a painting you’d admire, but never a portrait you’d frame. Washed ashore by the sea, a shell you’d never glance at again. I’m the moonlight you linger on, not the sun you’d rise for. Bright enough to draw you in, but too dim to make you stay.

I’m the storm you admire, yet the one you seek shelter from. Cherished for the aesthetic, forgotten at the break of dawn. I’m just another rose in a bouquet, not the first among the bunch. Pressed within your pages, left to wither as the days go on.

I’m a star you’d gaze at for a moment, then lose to the rest of the sky. Shining just enough to be noticed, until another one twinkled by. I’m a garden you’d wander into, never fertile to hold your roots. I’m the soil beneath your footsteps, not the ground you’d settle into.

TW: suicide, self-harm, death, blood, emotional distress

A raw piece-unedited

Some kill for fun, some for love, some for revenge..yet as a pool of blood marked my legs staining it tint red, I knew I wasn't one of them. I killed for peace. Soft ringing noise in my ears..... progressively increased.... blinding..... my vision, it would all be over in a while, the blood would be wiped off, the floors cleaned, the room as fresh as it ever could be… all in the matter of time. Would anyone call the police? Would they? Would anyone find the body?  Would they look at it as a mass of flesh? Or an unlucky soul the world treated too cruelly? Would there be tears? Would they curse me out  for stealing away their only child? The perfect, talented, pathetic little girl? Or would they thank me, for taking away their burden, for their little girl grew up to be a  disappointment. They raised her to glow with the fireflies, and she aimed for the stars. What difference would a little girl know?  There….i can hear them… I can hear them calling… no…no….don’t …. It would all be over in a while…........just a matter of time…...

........................the blood is drowning me ........

................................the ringing in my ears .........have stopped.

............My head.......... isn’t heavy anymore.

Would anyone find the little girl? 

Would there be a tombstone?

i’d like roses, deep red ones…

just like the gurgling liquid that surrounds me.

Waiting for a place to call home,

‘Cause home is where the heart calls,

Yet distant from the earth’s embrace,

Where blood drips, and fondles the walls.

The clatter of swords and ruins of war,

The arduous heists, collision of hearts,

Meeting of eyes and shallowing breaths,

A dangerous dance, where trust departs.

A world where each have their stories,

Some untold and some high in glory,

Where ‘love’ and ‘hate’ are not just words,

But a tale of power, conquests, and victory.

A place that wraps your heart with warmth,

Where souls connect and become one,

The love, the trust, the sacrifices and promise,

Of finding each other after the battle’s done.

The romance between two innocent souls,

Ripped and ceased by rules of forbiddance,

Secret smooches, and hate as a shield,

To hide the infatuation, lost in resistance. 

I found my home in words and pages,

‘Cause home is where the heart lies,

from the clutches of a mundane world,

  Your eyes remind me of the stars— little embers with quiet flames, burning softly, Yet bright enough to hold me captive In their endless warmth.

Your arms remind me of the moonlit sky, a night I’d gladly melt into, where silence speaks in silver, and time forgets to move.

Make a wish….

Gazes at the night sky, quivering lips, a shooting star passes by. 

Make a wish….

Looking at the time, 11:11, a blooming brim of hope,

Make a wish….

Like they all say, 

A tiny, single twig, for the ones who fall,

A floating piece of wood, for those who drown,

A last standing leaf, for the one that’s ill,

To hold on to when the storm’s gone. 

Hope, belief, faith, wish,

Call it names, call it bliss.

Call it blindness, call it sick,

Yet when life gives up my darling,

Make a wish….

“Oh, to be loved by a writer…” But has anyone ever thought of what it means to love one? Writers breathe life into love, yet do they ever get to simply be its witness, instead of its maker? Can they not long to be the star in someone’s eyes, to be held in a glance, to be spoken to with words of tenderness? Or are they fated to stay bound to their verses, pouring their ache into characters just to taste what it might feel like?

You hold me tight that I can’t escape,

No matter how much I try, 

I keep coming back,

To the imaginary embrace of your arms,

Too guilty to leave you behind,

Your words keep me awake, 

Your sweet gestures as excuses,

To all the mistakes you made,

Constant apologies and fights,

Yet you find your way back,

Into my mind, not wanting to let go,

The contrasting nature, of fire and water,

One can gain control over the other,

That is what has become of ours,

I lost myself for you,

Becoming the version to impress,

I forgot to teach myself to express,

I let you manipulate me, make me believe,

In you, In me, In us.

Until I felt nothing completely drained,

Yet you expect me to be back,

To the imaginary embrace of your arms,

Is this how you control me?

Hope A four-letter word, Small, yet all-consuming. It holds the power to build, To shatter. Not love, not hate— No, nothing compares to hope.

For everything rests on it, Doesn’t it? A fragile thread we cling to, Tied to someone, Something we treasure.

It’s the anchor we clutch, Even as it drags us under. It breaks us, It tears us apart, Leaves us on our knees— Begging, pleading, Fooling ourselves.