Fields of Poetry

I don't know how to love him
What to do, how to move him
I've been changed. Yes, really changed
In these past few days when I've seen myself
I seem like someone else . . .

Sunday, March 6, 2011


The lines on the surface marks the growth of my soul upon which I would often bury my shame. The  darkness that envelops beckons the eager tears to flow, only they are held back by the stubborn lids that shuts out the world.

I part the shield from my face reluctant to open those that witnesses while the vehement appendages they oblige, coaxing my timid self to let loose. They comfort me and yet I continue to slight them afraid of what I already knew.

I have no right to contravene the life that is slowly fading away from me. It is but my own doing.

These pair of hands, my palms should not absorb the salt of frustration.

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