Poetry

Some of my late night writings

The weight of becoming

The night falls still.
The phone is where stories unfold,
With messages left to exchange,
But no hand to hold.

Wedding season drifts across your dimmed screen,
smiling faces, vows exchanged, a happy life you've never seen.

You send your blessings and mean every word you say,
then close the app and watch the joy fade away.

Tomorrow's alarm is begrudgingly set,
counting down the hours with quiet regret.

Another dawn.
Another prayer.
Another day pretending you do not care.

And there, in the darkness, the question returns,
not as a whisper, but like a candle as something that burns.

"When will it be my turn ?"
A gentle tear now starts to fill,
but in the still of the night, another question cuts far deeper still..

Are you waiting for love...
or avoiding the work of becoming worthy of it ?
Do you seek patience,
Without you being patient, even a bit ?

You ask for someone who holds integrity in private and in public view,
but when nobody is watching, what do you do ?

Every day counts every blessing delayed.
The heart counts every excuse you've ever made.

Perhaps the waiting is not the test,
perhaps it's the mirror that what will lay everything down to rest.

Perhaps the ache in your chest was never meant to break you apart,
Perhaps it is present to expose the demons still hidden within your heart.

For if the person you've prayed for walked through your door tonight,
would they find a companion prepared for the journey and turbulent flight ?

Or are you merely someone lonely, desperate, and tired of the front ?
With no echo, the room still remains silent, which makes you even more petulant.

Under the weight of your own soul, another tear falls unseen.
Another prayer rises between what is and what might have been.

And before sleep finally takes you an unconscious distance away,
one final question remains that keeps resurfacing everyday.

Are you truly waiting for the one written for you,
or is the one written for you still waiting for you to change into someone true ?

“ I had a lot of worries in my life, most of which never happened “

(Kejora.in.silence)

<CUSTOM_BOLD>POEM III - Nocturne</CUSTOM_BOLD>

Can't sleep, won't sleep, don't sleep.
A flower blooms
Drop of sunlight
Broken family
Chipped nail polish
Insomniac?
Routine
Volume button breaks
A dress of lies
False pretences
Googles how to drown mentally
Is that a thing?
Maybe I need a renaissance of myself
Why do I write?
Why does the pen move across the page
Like a dashing hare
Hypersensitive to everything
Brushing my teeth in the dark
A cake made of soap
How many books can you read before you die?

𝑰’𝒗𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒍𝒆𝒇𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆; 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆.

𝑩𝒚 𝑯𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒃

I will remember you till the end of time, I will believe everything you say, I will not ask you to text me, but I will still wait for your text.

𝑩𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒖𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒇𝒚 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒈𝒆. 𝑺𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒔 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅. 𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔, 𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒊𝒔 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕'𝒔 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒛𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒊𝒔.

𝑩𝒚 𝑯𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒃

Shams Tabrizi says: The eye loves what pleases it, the mind loves what it understands, but the soul loves only what resembles it.

“Mama, it’s me.”
A poem about becoming the keeper of three.

I am a keeper of three.
Not by choice
Not by title
But by necessity.

I carry the mother she was -
The woman who remembered everything.
The voice that called my name
before I ever learned to respond.
The hands that fed me
bathed me
held me
and built my beginning
from nothing but love.

I carry the mother she is -
The woman who searches now.
The woman who looks at me
as if I am both familiar
and unknown.
The woman who forgets
what she wants held so easily,
And reaches instead
for fragments
that no longer stay in place.

And I carry the daughter.
The one who remains.
The one who remembers both.
The one who stands between
that was
and what is.
The one who says,
“Mama, it’s me,”
even when the world
no longer answers back.

I am the bridge
between memory and loss.
Between recognition and forgetting.
Between past and present
that no longer agree.

People think there are two of us.
Mother and daughter.
But they do not see the third.
The one who holds the timeline together.
The one who remembers for both.
The one who carries what has been
so that nothing is entirely lost.

Some days
it feels like love.
Other days
it feels like weight
no one else can see.

But still,
I remain.
Still
I return.
Still
I hold all three versions of us
in the same hands.

Because someone must.
Because love did not stop
when memory began to fade.
It only changed shape.

And I became
a keeper of three.

Losing ur appetite bcs u’re feeling sad is a whole different level.