A Murder in Poetry

 I have rehearsed it

a thousand times —

The perfect crime,

The getaway, the alibi.

I rifled through my chest,

Each cavern, every ravine,

For traces of fingerprints

And of guilt I have to leave behind.

I mirrored my soul

As I watched my conscience practice its silhouettes,

In the dark — slow and meticulous,

A confession whispered at night.

I smile at your closed eyes,

Let your ghost dance through the door,

Lit off that lantern,

May you wander, may you get lost.

I do not want my hands stained,

I do not want rain that tastes of iron —

Yet in every epilogue of my poetries,

I have already killed you with a thousand knives.

I will lose myself in the songs

And of the prose I leave like footprints,

And if only thoughts could kill —

Oh my! Then mine would be a quiet genocide.

Make Peace

 Make peace with the battles 

You fought so hard

But did not win.

Make peace with the struggles 

You tried with your best

But did not come out clean.

Make peace with the silence 

You always tried to speak about

But never dared to open your mouth.

Make peace with your heart

For not always siding with your mind 

But learned to be kind.

Make peace with person

You always wanted to be

But did not become.

Make peace with your "what if's"

You tried so much to justify 

Until then, you will be satisfied

Trouble in the Old Town

 There's trouble in the old town

And the whistle 

Is waiting to be blown.

They killed the Mockingbird 

Only for the Mockingjay 

To be born.

They made the perfect crime

Troubles and troubles

In the heart of the old town,

They're enjoying the show

Just in time when the whistle 

Is finally blown.

P.s. 

A lot of people (I know) are so blatantly condemning corruption inside politics, shame on them! They don't look at themselves, they're busy joining the social media posting their disgust, when in fact, they are the very same people who are corrupt in their very own jobs. Shame, shame on you!

P.p.s.

Don't confuse the scheming corruption in your job as a blessing from God to sustain your needs/wants. If you think that way... Then you are mentally broke.

Of the White Dress Unworn

 But we love dark things 

From afar. 

They seem beautiful 

And Mysterious, 

Noctivagant.

But not until it gets us.

Moving in shadows,

Devouring our light.

A wraith in waiting 

With Opaline eyes.

And in the dark that veils us,

We yearn once more

To be there in the distant,

Just Watching 

With the moonlight.

But as we walk in silence,

Like a ghost in prayer,

We learn that

Freedom comes 

In different enigmatic ways.

Freedom is acceptance 

That some things 

Are just numinous dream,

We cannot dare to claim.

They are meant to be elusive.

Freedom is forgiveness 

Even without an apology.

For it is a waste of time

To wait for something 

That may never come.

Freedom is parading 

That long white dress

You did not wear,

For some shameful reasons 

You no longer care.

Freedom is wearing 

Your silver shoes 

Meant for the altar.

But now you're walking it

In the pavements of your street.

Like vellichor and withered pages,

Yellowed book from ash and age,

You yearn and learn all the same.

And slowly as your heart breaths 

You kiss your grief goodbye.

Point Nemo

 But first loves

Belong to the past. 

When fairy tales

Wrapped around the innocence 

Of forever ever after.

Kindled by sparks,

Blown by the Winds.

And when life happens,

All that is left 

Is the embers...

Ashes...

Cold blackened charcoals.

And yet here we are

Still believing 

In Phoenix.

That from ashes

They will return,

Burning...

Scourging...

Rekindling what's left.

But first loves 

Belong to the past.

They remain in the clocks 

Of forever not in present.

They flicker in a glimpse 

In the chasms of our lives.

But they will always be

Closer to space than land.

A Point Nemo

In a vast of mosaic emotions.

A hiraeth...

A nostalgia.

For All the Stars (I've Wished Upon)

Once upon a time,

A vast of labyrinth 

In the sky.

I wished upon a star 

So ephemeral,

But it was an epiphany 

In my heart.

My pristine heart

Found ebullience,

Like a limerence,

In the oblivion 

Of the dark...

Opalescence.

So again 

And again 

I wished on every twinkle,

On constellations,

And nebulae,

Orion and Equulei.

Oh! But Alas!

Each and everyone 

Fell.

To grant my wishes, 

My fervent prayers,

At night I spelled.

They left 

The heavens. 

Leaving my sky

Empty and barren.

As deep sense 

Of sonder, in me deepens.

Where have all

The Stars gone?

I wonder 

As I look up

And wished to see them

Again, one by one.

The Footnotes

 Inner peace is when they made you a villain in their own stories but you refused to be listed on the footnotes of their books.

That you choose to be at peace rather than battling over some petty and insignificant wars.

Because you know that your integrity weighs more than your reputation.

So let them write series of books about their twisted stories about you and just smile without giving a damn on their acknowledgements.

 But the truth is...

Even if you're good enough 

If you're not the one they are looking for...

You will never get to be chosen.

Echoes of Felicity

 Life is an echo of felicity that disappears in a great chasm of poignancy, an occasional burst of laughter that could be plotted above a graph of an interminable wail of misery, like a terrible giggle in the midst of your horrible forced march to death in hell. It is a single skip of bliss.