𝑷 𝒆 𝒂 𝒓 𝒍

Another poem for y'all to read and for me to meet with silence —
          
          I tell my mother I've won the Nobel Prize.
          
          Again? she says. Which discipline this time?
          
          It's a little game we play: I pretend
          
          I'm somebody, she pretends she isn't dead.
          
          — ( THE COMMITTEE WEIGHS IN)
          — Andrea Cohen.
          
          

Pearl <3 how are you?

Of course, even though I'm not reading and writing here regularly but my impulsive mind wants to make it as another thread profile (eek, means posting one liners in every hour) but I am just sharing my another poem 'cause why not—
          
          Every day I want to speak with you. And every day something more important calls for my attention the drugstore, the beauty products, the luggage
          
          I need to buy for the trip.
          
          Even now I can hardly sit here
          
          among the falling piles of paper and clothing, the garbage trucks outside already screeching and banging.
          
          The mystics say you are as close as my own breath.
          
          Why do I flee from you?
          
          My days and nights pour through me like complaints and become a story I forgot to tell.
          
          Help me. Even as I write these words I am planning to rise from the chair as soon as I finish this sentence.
          
          — (Prayer) Marie Howe.

"I long for something, 
          without knowing what.
          
          I long for somewhere, 
          without knowing where."
          
          Longing — Dounia Bertuccelli.

I can love fiercely and still can choose to move on, perhaps because I know that when I love, I don't love like morning wishes anymore. I love in the way I'm ready to peel the layers of my skin like the way you would peel oranges, so subtle and causal but with each layer gone, there's nothing left for me, just a plain bruise as a reminder that yeah I love, I love fiercely where I give my everything but you do nothing.
          
          What did I seek in return, perhaps to call you mine? Is it too much? Perhaps it's too much. Because this time, when you tried to peel another shade of my skin, I woke up in jolted pain. This isn't who I am, right? Then who are you?
          
          You're trading for something I cannot give anymore, but you could have read my eyes right? But like every glass hour, it broke too. I loved you, I still love you, perhaps will love you but this time, the thought of you letting go, didn't hurt me anymore.
          
          Perhaps, I will just be busy attending to my rough skin. I didn't miss you; I wouldn't miss you but I would still love you, just not in the way I would peel oranges anymore.
          
          — tenth may, pearl (new book is on the way)

@preciouspearl20 Busy, but ok.

@preciouspearl20 cool

So, I once saw a person joke about their presence on Wattpad. Like, with the way they were active 24/7 there, it means only one thing — that they gotta disappear soon.
          
          And trust me, with the ONC season, I didn't realize that I would fall into that loophole too. It's around this time last year I was inactive like this, where I did see the notifications, but to see and complete them never happened.
          
          Now, the million-dollar question: when I ain't able to read anything, will it be a wise decision to publish my writing? I don't know, this is one of the reasons I just keep pushing, since as much as I would love to be here, it doesn't pay my bills, but it does something more than that.
          
          Anyways, end of my rant. What's been happening on your end? Mind sharing how you are doing?

@preciouspearl20 pretty good. Too much new stuff to post and too busy to post it, but if we do, there a few good moments. 
          
          And you? Disappeared for a bit?
          
          ❤️

I hope the day that it's my turn I can accept the love I receive and find the time and courage to change what I was made to believe—that I am unlovable. 
          
          Because I don't think that's right or true because when I ask the stars about who admires me, they tell me about you and all the wishes spent hoping to see me soon I hope and love meets me.
          
          As it stays well into the afternoon to watch the sunset as the wind cools as the sky loses its light.
          
          I hope it stays for dinner. I hope it wants to spend the night telling stories or tracing art pieces that absorb into one's skin. I hope the day that it's my turn, love asks me, "where have you been?!" 
          
          As it runs to meet me in its arms to caress the softness of my hair. I hope it looks into my eyes and whispers how he can't believe that I'm actually there.
          
          I see the moments like moving pictures that correspond to someone other than me, like every time I imagine myself in his arms, the universe laughs at how stupid I can be. I hope the day that it's my turn patience hides inside his palm so that when he reaches for my hand he makes me feel calm that his voice is the softness that many search for but never find. 
          
          Part (ii) is pasted below.