Color Palette
-
They say blue is the color of calm,
and rage is the red of dawn.
Yellow feels like a joy of a song,
and black, the grief when someone is gone.
White is the purity of a canvas that was never drawn.
-
I'm in a box with no white,
and blue is nowhere in sight.
Yellow is nonexistent, no matter how bright.
Black is consuming, even if it's not night.
Red is all of me… live enough to fight.
Comments:
I'm a knight of my own brain.
I navigate through life like a board game..
a pawn to my own calculations that I could never tame.
Always three steps ahead, never in the present moment..what a shame.
-
My time is infinite..why do I feel chased?
I played my part, yet time felt like it went to waste.
My opening gambit was thoughtfully placed,
yet I'm moving my pieces like I'm in a haste.
Will my mind ever realize that I should play at my own pace?
It's a game of strategy, not a race.
-
My rules are simple.
Play like it's an opening act.
Start by protection, never an attack.
When threatened, make sure there's always a fallback.
The next move is never something to lack.
-
I'll sacrifice my pawns for bait,
and leave my knights up to fate.
Rook and bishop always close, just in case.
I'm meant for victory at this rate.
Next is checkmate.
……………………
But what is the prize of a game
it's joy I never got to taste?
-
Comments:
I Was Here
-
It's been written in stone, but what is a stone but accumulation of dirt and mud.
I'll take it and create a statue of me and I'll be sure it's seen from the skies above.
and the cast of its shadow covers my past as if under a rug.
And I'll sculpt my face to look smug.
-
My name will be written on stone not because of fate.
But for my story to commemorate.
And until that date,
I'll whisper my name on repeat
as I walk in the void that meant for my brain to defeat.
-
I'll whisper to the walls.
And yell down the halls.
and write my name on every surface even if I have to crawl.
I will not be erased when life made me witness it all.
-
Comments:
Shackles …(old):
Chains holding down my arms and legs.
Their rings are made of the thoughts in my head, linked together by the coercion of a culture inherited from the dead.
When I begged...
It's not a prison, they said.
-
Shackles …(new):
Every move I make,
I hear the rattling of chains that I could never break.
Holding down my arms and legs
like my existence was a mistake.
When asked… they said it was fate.
-
I starve for freedom and I was never fed.
Hunger consumes the thoughts in my head—
thoughts made by the coercion of a culture
inherited from the dead.
When I begged…
"It's not a prison," they said.
-
But my wings have already outgrown the cage.
My feathers snapped and torn—
even when freed, they can never be rearranged.
My story will forever be words on a page.
Even then… the paper will also age.
With my existence, I'm left to grieve.
-
Comments:
Poetry..
Since the beginning of time,
poets experienced love and wrote about it in rhymes.
I read them with envy in my mind—
not of love, but that they ever had the time
while my words only acted as my lifeline.
Writing about feelings, not survival, felt like a crime.
-
Lines about a smile that's brighter than the sun,
stanzas of yearning that left them undone,
pages and chapters that spoke only of one.
While my pages are an accumulation
of grotesque words that feel like a loaded gun.
-
And so I'd write
lines about my smile that I no longer recall,
stanzas of yearning for a healed soul,
pages and chapters that spoke
how my pain is free for all.
-
Comments:
Uoymai
-
In a faraway land,
a legend of a woman still stands.
She appears when you call on her name but don't demand!
If you do, she'll grab you with severed hands
a phantom limb strong enough to not withstand.
So call on her name, but make sure it lands.
-
Uoymai is the name.
She won't give you money nor fame.
She's meant to help with the pain—
a burning rage that can no longer be tamed,
or grief that won't leave your brain.
A call for help for a life lived in vain.
-
Summoned by scribbling her name on paper.
Hold it facing a mirror.
Close your eyes and don't waver.
What's left of your strength is the wager.
Call in your favor.
-
Open your eyes.
The reflection of what's written is your demise.
-
Comments:
I Can't Put It Into Words
-
I can't put it into words—
a feeling of a smell that brings back memory, and it's a blur,
yet it carries a heaviness that's never pure.
Why are my memories only filled with gore?
-
I can't put it into words…
when I laugh and wonder, is that the feeling of fun?
Isn't it supposed to feel like a kiss from the sun?
But I'm cold as a drained corpse with no blood that runs.
-
I can't put it into words…
the times I've laid in bed,
thoughts of the next day running through my head.
I sleep, but the next day I dread.
With eyes colored red,
I wake but wish I was dead.
-
I can't put it into words…
when I start to write,
my own words feel like they could bite.
And I'm stuck, wondering if my mind was ever right.
-
Comments:
Horror Movie
A horrific scene of bodies splayed around a woman that dreams.
Gore and decay filled her senses, yet she never screamed.
Her expression never portrayed the horror of what she'd seen.
As I observe the screen,
I'm left to wonder—of my fear, who should I deem?
Is it her, or the massacre she sits between?
-
Finally, her lips move: "You're okay," on repeat.
"You're okay. You're okay. You're okay."
She tries to match it to the sound of her heartbeat.
Move. Do something, I wanted to yell from my seat.
She did… even when her eyes only spoke of defeat.
-
Stumbling over meat and bone,
she tripped over a body of her own.
The identity of the bodies was never unknown.
Realization turned her limbs to stone.
-
Body turned to ash from a burnt soul—
one with knives stuck to its back like a mole,
one of a version that lost control,
no eyes—just carved-out holes.
The protagonist, too, was playing another role.
Her death was always in store.
With it, the credits roll.
-
Written, directed, and produced by me.
Lead actress, cast, and extras: me.
I look around—even the theater only held me.
A movie dedicated to the woman who always sees.
Me.
-
Comments:
Triggers
Phone calls don't sound the same anymore.
They're no longer ringtones, but sirens and alarms.
If I pick up, I'm left with another bomb to disarm.
How can I convince my brain that jingles aren't meant to harm?
-
Doors don't lead to other rooms,
but to another inevitable doom.
Knocks aren't there to announce an entry,
but warning signs that loom.
Of my fears, I don't want to be consumed,
but how, when they left me with no cocoon?
-
Don't call on my name.
If you do, make sure it's not in vain.
I don't want to be a victim of another pain.My name I no longer wish to proclaim.
Until then, I'll carry it with shame.
-
Comments:
A continuation of my poem “Stalker”….this time from the stalker’s POV
-
Stalker's POV
She didn't know that I was always there.
I didn't come out of thin air.
You're just getting more aware.
And I know it was never fair.
Just as you think your mind can no longer bear,
I'm another presence… of… you have to beware.
-
On days when the rhythm of our steps don't match,
you take notice.
Your resilience will never make you prey to catch.
Even when I burn your flesh red as a rash,
you don't even stop to scratch.
Does she know the burn is a protective act?
-
She's my only devotion.
Does she know I can predict her every motion?
Oh, how I long for her thoughts…
always colliding, never broken.
How I crave to be part of their immersion.
You've always been my chosen.
-
I was only a buzz in her ear,
but tonight I chose to appear.
How can she not fear?
"Are you my witness?" — asked with despair.
I smiled.
I was always there.
-
Comments:
Stalker
I feel her before I see her.
She follows me everywhere.
I'm only able to catch a glimpse of her,
as if she's never fully there.
Shouldn't I be more aware?
-
She matches the rhythm of her steps with mine,
yet I never run.
Some days her presence feels like a burning sun,
like she's trying to punish me for something I've done.
Skin filled with blisters is no fun.
Or is she trying to prevent an outcome?
-
Monitoring eyes fixated on every motion.
Even my thoughts are yearned for with devotion.
And I'm left to wonder…
is this how it feels to be chosen?
-
She was a fly on the wall, I swear.
Now a shapeshifter wearing my skin bare,
crawling from the edge of my bed…
all I can do is stare.
Should I be scared?
Or has life decided of my company to finally be fair?
-
Paralyzed, my lips the only movement I can muster.
"Are you my witness?" — the only question I can utter.
A smile is the answer, and I shudder.
-
I shut my eyes and beg for sleep.
My thoughts run deep.
And I'm left to convince my brain:
I'm not held captive.
This is how it feels to be embraced.
-
Comments:
I started scribbling the words of my mind at thirteen.
Three diaries filled with frenzied screams:
one made of shedded skin, held closed by a withered string;
one velvet-covered with worn-out ends;
and the third—touching it felt like a sin.
\-
My eyes scan the first page as I try to read,
but I feel my gums begin to bleed.
The words taste like metallic seeds,
growing their own weeds.
Stop, my tongue wanted to plead.
Now pages have inked blood next to words spitting abusive greed.
As my eardrums explode before they can hear another word it had to grieve.
\-
Even my lashes turn to sharp blades,
stabbing my pupils for my vision to fade.
Salted tears could never be of aid.
In my own autonomy, I no longer know how to persuade.
\-
My lungs fill with burning rage.
Nostrils drip ash…
my inner cremation was the wage.
\-
Comments: