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  • myrrhc 36m

    coffee grains don't feel like they have the worth to be compared to stars, or sunsets, or branches of trees. or english. languages that obtain a second thought before the mud pools explain the essence of rain. there are patterns and formulas you follow when you spill words and they come in succession starting from places with least resistance. maybe that's why i stare at the sky most of the time, wondering what it's meant for one to write.

    there is purpose in every intonation, one can't get that wrong. you can flip the coin once or twice, but have you calculated the higher probability to arrive at a choice in the basis of which face it was tossed? she can manage to go back home if the grass hasn't swallowed the path her bicycle used to take ten years ago. but if people haven't stopped walking in the same direction in repeat every day for the next decade, wouldn't she have lost her way?

    you can leave traces of things betwixt phrases like canopies with buttonholes covered by autumn leaves. it's not a trap for the birds, but a gift. a mystery that is yet to be curious about, and in time it is spent in gradual recognition. yet perhaps there isn't much amount of holes in this place that one can fall into, in hopes of finding wonderland. or am i even capable of keeping my sanity in worlds that, supposedly, never grow old.

    it's always the picture frames taken into account when you pierce the wall with rusty nails you picked from a carpenter's house nearby. and with creaky floors and empty ceilings, maybe there isn't much to tell about an abandoned gallery without its usual art. yet people still tell stories, day by day with sticks and stones, hoping trees can grow out of the broken barks of another, because doesn't that sound wrong? or too right to be called otherwise, slowly and quickly, we become specks of a renowned artistry, and we remain burgeoned.

    it's syllabic in texture as you tend to wrap letters in between your fingers or your hair strands that tell you, you are a color away to a growing age and fallen teeth. yet, isn't it always quite prestigious to think about the words we missed and not. unknowingly, they remain understood and misunderstood, spelt and misspelled, in days that have yielded this wonder and bewilderment for the sky, and the polarity of coffee grains.
    ©myrrhc

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  • myrrhc 1w

    did i ever tell you that the clock runs backwards whenever you face south? from west to east, it turns. and you're always a second away from facing the right direction.

    "to find the southern cross, first look for the two very bright stars nearby, alpha and beta centauri" (national geographic). but amidst the eighty seven other constellations, i still wonder when will space ever gratify our time.

    the number of days you've been here would most likely be the number of sunsets you've encountered. not necessarily seen by the way, because what's over the rooftops and the hazy breeze covers a magnitude of unknown space, a scenery way beyond the depths of the undiscovered ocean life. and as humane as it is, we're too fond of facing our watches in turn of the day that just passed by.

    yet, did you ever find answers as to what lies beyond that void? of the pitter pattering rain that echoes your mechanical keyboard and the mouse clicks, the galaxies inside this vast plane. no, not of lifeforms or alienation, or its unexplained scientific phenomenon, but of this infinite collection of stories, unfolded black matter and white stars, and all these invisible colors that remain too close or too far away from each other.

    “the milky way has the right name for the wrong reasons,” jeffrey newman once said. "it really is milky white—or, more precisely, it’s the color of fine-grain, new spring snow in the early morning or late evening, about an hour away from dawn or sunset.” but they appear purplish, bluish, yellowish, pinkish in pictures, and too low in light to look as it is for the naked eye. perhaps that is why we stare at our shoes way longer, this visible soil and dirt that magnify our lives.

    maybe gazing at this ground for more than half a minute straight doesn't ring a bell to people who spend most of their time looking up. "i have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night" (sarah williams). yet for those who keep their secrets foretold, they don't realize the depth of six feet before their toes grow old. ������ ������ ���� �������������������� �������������������� ���� ������������������ ������ ����������. but despite nicholas sparks' "you are in two places at once," i don't think people are only a collection of who they are now and who they once were.

    even the moon failed to speak for several days, and still those number of drafts cannot recognize the right words to say. not much for people who knew not that the sky stays silent most of the time but the thoughts linger anyway, above the clouds that hide the pastel palettes of pablo picasso or vincent van gogh's. yet just as how some antagonists vindicate themselves with all the traumas they've been through, ������ ������������������ ������ ������������ ���� �������� ������ ������ ������������ ������ �������� ���� ���������� will always hand you closer to the shooting star you once wished will fall right.

    and you, of morning tea, the sky, its rain and every thing i couldn't thank enough, are always a second closer to the prayers once whispered, ���� �������������� as the little ������������ ������ ���� ���� ����������, ���� ������������, �������������� space and time, ������ ������������ ������ ������ ��������.
    ©myrrhc

    thank you, @writersnetwork .

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  • myrrhc 3w

    they have every right to call her delusional. because isn't that true? you come home with your feet slacked into the wooden floor without remorse of yesterday's becoming. and she's wearied, jagged, and she wore not her compassion on her sleeves but the dirt under those nails spoke the depth of the ground she was once buried in instead.

    ������ is no longer a pronoun that objectifies another. nor does it feel like a proper noun that qualifies one particular thing. ������'���� ������, in itself, masked to portray a character in the periphery of somebody else's story, yet a protagonist in its own too. she tries to commit for more than half of a ����, a �������� and an ����. but she's not enough to become somebody more than she already is. and you know it.

    her mom wouldn't recognize her, in a distinct dress and unwashed sneakers. ������'���� �������� �� ���������������� ���� ������ ������������ ������ ���������� ������ ���� ������������, and yet you still speak in behalf of the mirror who screams the same when the tears don't refuse to fall this time. i don't even know who i am, a ������ and a ������, and an enemy who overthinks all the same. ���� �� ���� ���������������� �������� �� ������������ ��������������? you worry of tomorrow, and she's uncertain of today. yesterday, i was alone and i'm yet to be buried on my own.

    you have every right to call yourself delusional, but the thoughts don't. they don't keep your adjacency over things out of your hands. that's why they can be termed as ������������������. they don't come invited. yet she often sneaks out to keep her sanity in tact between her fingers. because she chooses to remain unknown to most, but a few pronouns still become exceptions to those.
    ©myrrhc

    thank you, @writersnetwork .

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  • myrrhc 3w

    "count to ten," i whisper to myself. "count. to. ten." because when i finish counting, this horror shall end.
    -tomi adeyemi.

    you need not to know that there are forty hours a day. and i'm always a second closer to jetlag, the kind when the skies are empty and the clouds need not to float thirty feet away before you decide to jump. ������ ���������� ���� ������ �� ������ ���� �������� ������������, and it doesn't learn how to catch you barehanded. there are keys betwixt its fingers and if they don't pierce your skin the moment you fall, the driver must've forgotten to lock the car before crashing into a wall. for time doesn't go knocking on closed doors these days. �������� ���������� ������ �������� ������ ���������� ���������� �������� ���������� �������������� ������ ������������, because the tinted windows were enough to hide what was never once found.

    so in that moment of impact, that split second closer to giving up, there's nothing else to see other than shards and the flickering of traffic lights. ���� ���������� �������� ������������ ���� ���������� ������ �������� �������� �������� �������� �������� ���� ������ �������� ������. and i'll wait, another forty hours before my jetlagged mind decides to jump again.
    ©myrrhc

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  • myrrhc 3w

    it's five a.m. in the morning, and the redundancy's still there. so i blind the windows good night, yet stir the coffee a little more this time.

    i can't tell whether i have to sleep, or call it out a day.
    it hasn't even started, yet i've already slipped away.

    it's six p.m. in the evening, and the thoughts reiterate still. so i blind the windows good night, yet stir the coffee a little less this time.
    ©myrrhc

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  • myrrhc 3w

    there is no coherence in my words. my lines don't interject what most define as poetry. and the things they criticize, i've already judged in my head. you can't skate without learning to keep your balance, but i am flawed, unworthy. reckless and spontaneous, and the gap between my blades doesn't measure the depth of the cold below. maybe that's why they choose to read the lines because the spaces have aged into thin ice, only to break the moment you step into an unfathomable depth. i don't think most people see winter more than its snowflakes or the snow. don't you see? it mocks the same frozen fingertips, sticking on to the same write-ups that don't even make any sense. an antagonist i am, split into my own being that can't even handle my own stress, my own burdens. i poison myself with my lies just to feel a little numb as to how much the reality knows i'm capable of destroying my own head. it gets me questioning why i never recommend painkillers, yet often i am in need of them myself. a hypocrite, an enemy. my own monsters draining the blood from the hope i've been trying to build for years. i get tired too, and as much as i can say that most things are blessings in disguise, i am engulfed by my own lines and the things i refuse to say. because there is no coherence in my words.
    ©myrrhc

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  • myrrhc 4w

    the moon didn't feel dark today. �������������� ������ ������������ ������ ������ ��������, i am inflicted by the clouds and the silhouettes of leaves. but the moon didn't feel dark today. not at once, not in its becoming.

    the werewolves don't fear the moon nor their flesh stinging into a being more compact than their own preexisting knowledge. for �������� ������������ �������� ���� ������ ������������ �������������� �������� ����������, �������������� ������ �������� ������������ ������������ ������ �������������� ������������������. yet i still speak in common words to chew a little less of my unclear words.

    you remind me so much of the sky, i say. and the conflict lies between this fragile space and the empty grounds that pull my head awake. ������ ������, indirectly i continue but can't seem to end, pulling my tongue out of the ties where dreams are made of bed bugs that don't actually bite.

    these nightmares no longer haunt the same, and the moon didn't feel dark today, nor will it soon �������������� ������ ������������ ������ ������ �������� with the clouds that tell you to breathe underneath the swaying leaves. no, i am not more than who i am. but i have grown in my becoming because of this gravity and the sky that keeps me from drowning.
    ©myrrhc

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  • myrrhc 4w

    i believe i saw you in my dream last night, but you were busy waiting in the terminal for the next train.

    i didn't want to disturb yet i just hoped you could've recognized in a split second glance.

    i thought you weren't being pretentious, or i just didn't think you might. but when i see you again, will you still find me reckless if i wear my shirt backwards this time?
    ©myrrhc

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  • myrrhc 4w

    my dad told me about you. he said that ������ ������������ �������������� ���� ���� �������������� ������ ������ ���� ������ ������������, ������ ������ �������� ���������� ���� ���� ������ ���������� ������ ������. i didn't take that seriously, of course. amidst the fabric and the thimble that protects not the thumb but the tips of your fingers, you cannot fix what was once torn in too thin of a clothing. ������ ������������ �������������� not to be stitched but to become an adjacency.

    i am in doubt of my time and my thoughts, and my self subjected into someone who ought not to commit a mistake. i apologize every split second for being so, and i can tell it fits the spaces under my nails back when i was seven. my mom used to tie strings between the loose rooms left from my fallen teeth. ��������'���� ������ ����������������, she said. but i was too young to realize what worth it must be to shed blood for those pieces of yours you cannot hold on to.

    we were drenched with uncertainty. hours of refusals and withdrawals, and sometimes i can't avoid myself from thinking that ������'���� eventually �������� �������� ���������� ������ ���������� ������ ������. and i can't fight alone for things that must've never fell in the first place. that maybe they were right about it. and the risks i've taken were not never a mistake.

    but my dad told me about you. and i always thought that growing up meant you have to tie your shoelaces every time you leave your words unfinished. i am not in assurance, in conviction, or in parallel with myself for an i who doesn't believe she is enough for anyone. yet ������ ������������ �������������� ���� ���� �������������� ������ ������ ���� ������ ������������, and she is armed to keep the stitches she'll have to take for you.
    ©myrrhc

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  • myrrhc 5w

    the sky has a language i don't understand. sometimes, it grips me two by two in every minute under the dynamic rain. its silence, overcasting a thousand silhouettes of leaves moving and branches swaying, and i cannot find the essence of the nonlinguistic smell of mud when the rest of space falls quietly above the clouds.

    i can sense phobias way before it gives me goosebumps, years back to when knowing leaves and glass don't give much of a difference. like how much they say we're afraid of the thought of falling and oblivion instead of heights and darkness. but maybe you can fear the stars without being scared of their light, i suppose.

    you burn in campfires nevertheless, yet celestial bodies justify the heat.

    but it's beautiful, still. how it engulfs you, and in pain, you gratify the understanding of worth. i, as a pronoun, is subjective to change. yet maybe the sky, in the least, holds up infinite miles of empty space, a part of you in a nonfuel solitary amidst your thoughts and the void that lingers.

    "i, a singular proper noun, would go on, if always in a conditional tense." -john green

    yet isn't it beautiful still. that the sky is unfathomable, and you find solace in the lingual way around a present tense of a conditional i.
    ©myrrhc

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