I take much pleasure in being alone, accompanied by the dispelling shadows of a dusty old table lamp, a sempiternal plot, but even as a sentient soul I had felt fear, and I could tell you everything and you would still not know the real me.
Am I lonely because no one cares, or am I lonely because I am not strong enough to let anyone get close enough to care?
But somewhere through the serenity of my loneliness and the constant noise of my life, a vociferous manner of expression comes to life and a piece of paper and a pen are the sole home where those words can live.
And I write... I write to be heard. Because when the ink fills the paper, the words etch into my heart, just as I wish they would into yours.
And to live in fear is to die each day. Never have I dealt with anything more difficult than my soul. I could not see the point of getting up, I had nothing to look forward to, maybe sometimes it is easier to fight for others than to fight for yourself.
I have found that growing up means being honest; about what I want, what I need, what I feel and who I am.
What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?
And I hope...
And I hope one day, while you are all by yourself, these good memories will float back to you when you are feeling down and maybe you might know that I did everything I could for you. That love cannot be bought or created like that, it happens because it happens.
Everything just feels temporarily, I was pretty used to writing poems for you with a permanent marker and I wasn't afraid, but nowadays I write everything with a pencil and an eraser in my hand, as I question every sentence I write, and I think I am sorry for immortalizing you with my poems, but if I a poem hasn't ripped your soul apart, then you haven't experienced poetry.
And I never change; I simply become more myself, and I am in a constant journey to find the state of tranquility, to find the peace of mind. I was looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I, can answer.
I wanted to be alone, but I also wanted to be loved, I have filled pages and pages of things that I wrote, and most of them were about you, I think we don't pick who we fall in love with, and it never happens like it should, it never happens like it should...
I miss something but I do not know what it is, but I know that I want it back, and maybe it is being close to you. What I want is for the two of us to meet somewhere by chance one day, like passing on the street, or getting in the same bus, to talk for few moments, I know you will never be mine, but I hope years from now we will still be in each others life, you have no idea what a charming memory you are to me.
Which is the hardest loss to mourn, someone you never knew, someone who passed away or somehow who is still alive?
I am mourning the loss of a friend who still stands in front of me, because I can see the door she will take to leave my life, and it's near.
Nothing is worthless, some are worth the fight, the others are worth to keep, and the rest, are worth to let go.
There are different types of art, but turning people into poetry is my favorite. I wanted it to be you, I wanted it to be you so badly. You weren't mine; but every night I dreamed you were mine, and that was enough for me.
I would like to explode, flow, crumble into dust, and my disintegration would be my masterpiece. I believed I wanted to be a poet, but deep inside I just wanted to be a poem.
Maybe we will meet again, when we are slightly older and our minds less hectic, and I will be right for you and you will be right for me. But right now, I am chaos to your thoughts and you are poison to my heart.
But until you heal the wounds of the past, you are going to bleed. You can bandage the bleeding with food, distractions or with work; but eventually it will all ooze through and stain your life. You must find the strength to open the wounds, stick your hands inside, pull out the core of the pain that's holding you in your past, the memories, and make peace with them.
But until then, you are a star yet to shine and I am an insentient monster.
I think I am going to stop writing; to free myself for a moment from my emotions, to try and collect my thoughts, to put back the pieces to where they fit.
And I...
I am forever grateful that you exist, even though you will never be mine.
Am I lonely because no one cares, or am I lonely because I am not strong enough to let anyone get close enough to care?
But somewhere through the serenity of my loneliness and the constant noise of my life, a vociferous manner of expression comes to life and a piece of paper and a pen are the sole home where those words can live.
And I write... I write to be heard. Because when the ink fills the paper, the words etch into my heart, just as I wish they would into yours.
And to live in fear is to die each day. Never have I dealt with anything more difficult than my soul. I could not see the point of getting up, I had nothing to look forward to, maybe sometimes it is easier to fight for others than to fight for yourself.
I have found that growing up means being honest; about what I want, what I need, what I feel and who I am.
What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?
And I hope...
And I hope one day, while you are all by yourself, these good memories will float back to you when you are feeling down and maybe you might know that I did everything I could for you. That love cannot be bought or created like that, it happens because it happens.
Everything just feels temporarily, I was pretty used to writing poems for you with a permanent marker and I wasn't afraid, but nowadays I write everything with a pencil and an eraser in my hand, as I question every sentence I write, and I think I am sorry for immortalizing you with my poems, but if I a poem hasn't ripped your soul apart, then you haven't experienced poetry.
And I never change; I simply become more myself, and I am in a constant journey to find the state of tranquility, to find the peace of mind. I was looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I, can answer.
I wanted to be alone, but I also wanted to be loved, I have filled pages and pages of things that I wrote, and most of them were about you, I think we don't pick who we fall in love with, and it never happens like it should, it never happens like it should...
I miss something but I do not know what it is, but I know that I want it back, and maybe it is being close to you. What I want is for the two of us to meet somewhere by chance one day, like passing on the street, or getting in the same bus, to talk for few moments, I know you will never be mine, but I hope years from now we will still be in each others life, you have no idea what a charming memory you are to me.
Which is the hardest loss to mourn, someone you never knew, someone who passed away or somehow who is still alive?
I am mourning the loss of a friend who still stands in front of me, because I can see the door she will take to leave my life, and it's near.
Nothing is worthless, some are worth the fight, the others are worth to keep, and the rest, are worth to let go.
There are different types of art, but turning people into poetry is my favorite. I wanted it to be you, I wanted it to be you so badly. You weren't mine; but every night I dreamed you were mine, and that was enough for me.
I would like to explode, flow, crumble into dust, and my disintegration would be my masterpiece. I believed I wanted to be a poet, but deep inside I just wanted to be a poem.
Maybe we will meet again, when we are slightly older and our minds less hectic, and I will be right for you and you will be right for me. But right now, I am chaos to your thoughts and you are poison to my heart.
But until you heal the wounds of the past, you are going to bleed. You can bandage the bleeding with food, distractions or with work; but eventually it will all ooze through and stain your life. You must find the strength to open the wounds, stick your hands inside, pull out the core of the pain that's holding you in your past, the memories, and make peace with them.
But until then, you are a star yet to shine and I am an insentient monster.
I think I am going to stop writing; to free myself for a moment from my emotions, to try and collect my thoughts, to put back the pieces to where they fit.
And I...
I am forever grateful that you exist, even though you will never be mine.
