You at Three

 The first time you cried 

You were three;

Tripped over a small rock and cried endlessly;

Second time you cried, you were six;

Your playmate stole your toy and you cried endlessly;

But now,

You cry endlessly through the night at 3am.

Thinking whether to make it or not.

One Day of Life

 [Here in this poem, I am a girl in heaven. I imagine that I have been given a chance to visit back earth]

I have got just one day to live on earth,
One more day is all I wish.

Tell the time to go slow,
And not too fast.

I missed the time which passed away,
I wish I could get it back.

I wish one more day, I could gain,
I wish I did not have this pain.

I had always dreamt a future with you,
I just want to live a day or two.

But as I have no other choice,
And the only choice is to survive,

You'll have to leave,
I'll have to go.

The time has passed,
Yes... I'll have to go.

Decoding Thoughts

There's no magic in the process of writing,

Words are just open wounds with no intentions of getting better.

 

There’s this collection of madness in my head.

If you get your hands somehow on them.

Please respect my words,

As I am fragile.

 

So if you want to write like me.

You'd have to get yourself sick.

You'll have to puke yourself onto the notebook.

You'll have to carry others regret, but never yours.

 

I have no idea of how much of this is poetry.

But I know the difference

of a poet and a sick person.

The latter pays to control his sickness,

And a poet gets paid to become her sickness.

 

The first time I wrote,

The sky was full of fire

And my lungs smelled of wet blue-black ink which was begging to dry.

 

I learned how to give my soul a name that fits.

I learned how to take that river-clay within my heart and make it into something.

I learned how to look into my eye

and say "there's nothing frightening here".

 

Everything’s a work in progress:

Art, belief, knowledge and even myself.