- Collection of poems -

Stories.

I used to watch flowers bloom at night, when everyone's eyes shut tight; along with the song I dreamed to write. They were just pure imagination, no lie.

I would fly and call him mine,
the dragon drawn on a white page.
I would try and shape the line
of a character who didn't have a name.
He would live more than any others,
he would love more than any authors;
and tired at last, would die
as there were no readers.

I fall in books, and hold the hook of a man going through seas and moods. I follow the rules, yet break them mute; act fake and hide clues.

"No, dad, words are no anymore my thing. Stories are for the ones who can inspire drawings, feels and tears.
No, dad, the pen abandoned me."

But as the stars danced up high,
I still felt the need to travel
through a messed up mind;
desire to fill empty hours.
The black ink grinned,
delivered from its cage,
knowing its sense would never age
if there was ever some sense.

________

As white as the snow, he was unnoticed by most. A mountain as a home, for he was lost in the cold. Sleeping or dead, was a question he could ask himself, as for days, his body stayed untouched, unhelped.

They found him on a Sunday, blessed by the poor sunrays, trying to save the last bit of life he could share. Found him on a sad day; they had been crying rivers before meeting the latter.

He'd fly to bring them what will be the cause of their mess; happiness.

He died on a Monday.
And unbearable became their sadness
once they've tasted the sweetness,
of laughs and smiles all over the place.

_______

Here stood the last words written on him;
dear dragon who disappeared within
unreadable pages with no meaning.

Again, I tell myself that I should stop.
And again, I let my hand scribble words.

_____________________________________________

Because writing is and will stay a part of me.
Thank you for reading.