I am a living chaotic mess
Strange, I thought I was
a fan of order, wasn’t I?
I want to do everything
Yet, have the ambition to do nothing.
I am a conflicted individual
Who is soon gonna implode.
I want people to know how scarred I am
Yet, so scared to let them in.
I am a genius that doesn’t make much sense
I’ve been striving for happiness
Yet, holding onto the heaviness of reality.
I am a human contradiction
That hates mirrors
Yet, I smile and preen myself at every chance,
Because I know there’s nobody quite like me.
I am a unique paradox, ain’t I?
Living both inside and outside the box.
Yesterday I came across this phrase;
Music is the best time capsule.
And I couldn’t agree more.
It’s where people hide their secret feels;
of their insecurities, their mistakes,
their sadness or their despairs.
It’s where people let their wildest dreams alive;
of the one they know they can never reach,
the one they know will never come back,
the one that got away without saying goodbye.
It has the power to make us smile,
and bring us to all types of tears.
It can carry us back in time,
and inspire us to dance in the moment.
For all our happiest times, there is music.
It’s where people store their most sacred memories;
of their first love, their first kisses, their first bucket of roses,
their first heartbreaks.
I finally come to conclusion that music is dangerous,
It can both tear you apart and put the pieces back together
it depends on what kind of memories living inside,
and the funniest thing is no one knows but you.
Maybe it is indeed a form of escape from the cruel reality.
You’re the only one to know the very ghosts living in your playlist,
followed by certain moments that happen once in a lifetime.
Behind every favorite song, an untold story.
So, be careful who you listen the music with.
Some music is louder than the others.
How odd it is to realize that music sometimes can be a time machine,
how every rhythm and beat brings me back
Last night I had an epiphany
About the straightforwardness of my poems.
I rarely put in complicated words.
Nor obscure phrases and sentences.
Then I realized that I was wrong in every way.
For poems are the clear expression of mixed feels.
Poems are ideas that are hard to fathom.
Feelings and emotions from the heart, powerful and fierce.
These are the doodles from the imagination,
The eternal graffiti of a broken and a beating heart.
Poetry is the thought that breathes.
The words that burn.
Poetry is the mirror of a dreamer’s soul.
Just as dissimilar and unique.
Some whole while others with a hole.
Rhymes, metaphors or any tools of writing
Aren’t what make my poems vibrantly divergent.
It is what this poet wants to write about
Through her paper and ink ’til it finally runs out