#scribbledstories

To the way your skin feels

Beneath my finger tips.

To the extent that I fantasize,

More than I’d ever care to admit.

I want to memorize

Every single piece of you.

The rise and fall of your breath.

The steady beating of your heart.

The low vibration of your voice.

The euphoric taste of your lips.

The gentleness of your touch.

So when we’re apart

I can close my eyes

And fade into you.

I was walking down the deserted street as part of my dare but I heard some screams deep inside the jungle. I went towards the noise. When I encountered a vicious crime, I was hell-bent on bringing justice to that innocent girl. They murdered and raped that immature girl in front of me.

They reeked of alcohol and the monsters I was witnessing were void of remorse. They didn't even know the girl in front of them was dead and they were stroking the corpse. The girl died with the horrifying screams that parched her throat and soul.

Suddenly, the twig beneath me twitched and they were on alert.

I hid behind the tree, my breathing heavy and my vision clouded with tears. They found me. I swear they had strong senses.

“You were not supposed to see that”-- one of them barked.

“Seems like we've one more meat to devour ”-- the other howled.

They wickedly cackled and smirked.

“Please, please leave me. I've done nothing to you. Please spare me”-- I begged.

Crying and begging those monsters to spare me was the toughest task.

I guess one of them recognized me, I don't know how.

I was in a wailing trance, wishing and hoping and praying for my life.

They told me if I keep my mouth shut and won't tell this to anybody they wouldn't touch me and would spare me.

Even in the haze, I hesitated to say yes because that would mean I'm saving these monsters.

They sensed the energy shift and one of them was coming towards me in the slow strides.

My whole life flashed before me. As I felt the presence of the monster approaching me, I knew I had to make a decision: to remain silent and save my own life, or to speak out and potentially risk it.

I knew that speaking out would be a risk, but at the same time, I was afraid of the consequences I would face if I stayed silent. In the end, I decided it was best to make a deal with the devil and hope that it would protect me from any harm.

In the end, I gave my word and said out loud, "MY LIPS ARE SEALED".

It can be difficult to cope with the guilt of not being able to live up to one's own expectations, especially when that person had been so motivated and determined in the past. The feeling of being trapped in a life that's no longer fulfilling can be overwhelming, and it can be hard to find a way out. It’s been 2 weeks since this happened and I already dreaded my choice and attempt to save myself. My death would have been easier than living up to this word. I wish for my speedy demise. I hate that I can't break those 4 words that destroyed me.

Calling myself a poet

I was on the edge of six when I wrote my first poem. It was nothing more than just a series of rhyming words scattered around the ends of some verses that hardly made any sense. But I proudly read it to my ailing grandfather, who smiles and says, "You are such a good poet,love".

But I did not call myself I poet back then.

My ninth grade teacher asks, why do I write and read about Van Gogh's paintings all the time. Upon which I say, how I find it so captivating that a living being, who never touched, sensed, felt or seen death can create such a masterpiece, all based on his power of imagination. How extraordinary life is, that artists die yet remain alive through their art; maybe for sometimes being alive is more than having a heartbeat.

But I did not call myself a poet back then.

Summer of 2010, I remember walking alongside the sea shore, hand in hand with my lover. At one point he looks at me and as the sunset floods my iris, he smiles saying how my eyes look like pools of honey; while I stood smiling back, wishing to say how his blue eyes holds all the secrets that the ocean seeks for and how they light up, as if the universe itself engraved them with the brightest mix of stardust.

But I did not call myself a poet back then.

On the edge of eighteen, the world of Plath's poetry welcomed me. I realised that words could hold more than feelings and passion. They can walk on the road of regrets, yet sound like a love song that two happy silhouettes dance, on the moon's good side.

I called myself a poet the day I started weaving my fears with threads of gold and silver, turning haunted houses into dreamlike wonderlands. For I was a poet painting constellations upon my worst nightmares.

For poetry was a lie that only a poet could tell.

“Must be hell of a website to put that look on your face.” came a voice from the corner of the room.

She nearly fell out of her chair. She jerked upright and saw her guy standing in the doorway. She grabbed a pen and pulled out a chart from the stack of her desk and pretended to be working.

“Jesus. You... scared me”

“Sorry. I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you. I guess you were too engrossed in...”

Before she could stop him, he rounded her desk and peered at the computer screen. His eyes went wide, then dark.

“Ah, well. This explains things. Making up a personal list for our shopping this evening.”

It was her birthday next weekend and he had decided to take her shopping that evening.

“No, I was merely doing some research”

Though she strives for dignity, heat flooded her face. It was totally stupid to be embarrassed. But for whatever reason, it unnerved her to be caught indulging in something that wasn’t entered pleasing a partner. He relaxed against her desk.

“Looks to me like you were enjoying your little research”

She crossed her arms over her chest and lied, “Nah. By the way, isn’t it a bit cool in here?”

But both of them knew that the room felt hot... like surface-of-the-sun hot. And she knew that it had more to do with the guy sitting across from her than the temperature.

He laughed and pulled her to her feet. That one motion sent her head spinning. Then he lowered his head, brushed his lips slowly across hers, before landing them against her ears. Her eyelids drifted down, and things warmed up. Especially when he planted his lips teasingly on hers. She melted against the solid wall of his chest, while her stomach fluttered against his carved-form-granite abs. He slid a hand down her spine,pressing her lower bodies together until a moan vibrated in the back of her throat. He groaned and said something which she couldn’t quite understand, then brought his forehead to hers and gave a slow lazy smile.

“We get any hotter, and I’m thinking our shopping trip won’t happen.”

spring. my mother

and her bells and her whistles;

i want to run away with you.

i want to kiss your hot mouth and

it should be a teenage revelation; it should be a good thing, a powerful thing, a thing lively,

a thing that is fresh. i am drowning in honey.

i am drowning in you, honey.

dead fly in honey.

i want to run away with you and

never stop saying pretty things to you. please, let me do this for you.

i want to stop biting the inside of my cheek,

and bleeding from every wound, and hurting

this way. i need a new way to hurt.

this is it; my brand new revolution; this is it; my whole renegade. i am going rogue. i am

rebelling in the only way i know how,

i’ll change; i’ll change and it will hurt, and-and

i’ll make it hurt good, i

So there you are, smiling at me.

Making me fall for you again and again.

Giving false hopes, again and again.

I try to understand if this is what hell feels like.

Going through the pain, again and again.

But there you are, smiling at me.

Making me miserable again.

But,

Amidst all this, you still make me happy.

Amidst all this, with all the bad things, I still get to be myself with you.

So even if this is Hell.

I too wanted to be so bright and beautiful that others couldn't help but to stop and stare at me when I appeared, and admire my glow.

It was common knowledge that shooting stars brought on wishes. So even if the stars were to fall from the sky there still would be some trace of good that could come out of it.

What people fail to tell you is that not every wish that is made gets granted. It isn't very common for stars to fall from grace, so takes a particular kind of luck to have one granted.

There are too many people in the world who too would like their wishes to be granted. Some are more deserving than others, and some need it or want it more than most.

An alcoholic wishing that his family could be restored. A single mother pleading that she'll get that job interview. A poor man wishing for the winning lottery ticket. A girl who was pleading for one more shot at love. A kid who wished that maybe one night there'd be a fresh dinner waiting for him on his table.

Where do the wishes that aren't answered go?