For Someone Who Likes to Call Herself a Writer And a Poet
I often find myself searching for words in empty coffee mugs and old journals. I would sometimes peek behind the clouds and sit among the stars and ask them how it feels like to sing lullabies with the moon. Still, words don't come easy. They play hide and seek with my thoughts and I can't even stitch the torn edges of my aching heart.
I am rarely poetic. When I try to paint my smiles with the loveliest metaphors, somewhere, I mess with the colors and I end up painting rainbows with deep shades of grey. In my attempts to portray Love that would melt hearts and bones, I run after words and phrases and catch them by the ponytail. It's a struggle, I tell you. On days that words are elusive like my dreams, I sit in my little corner and ponder where I went wrong. Maybe I search for words in the wrong places and I always end up empty-minded and it's frustrating.
In a world where happiness oftentimes comes with a great price, how do I bargain with the words to compress it into stanzas and paragraphs without making it look like a tragedy?
Whoever said that we should just listen to what the heart is saying and things would fall into place like jigsaw pieces was probably right. Because right now, I am tired of chasing after multicolored metaphors in the wrong places. I would just introduce my thoughts bared-faced like how I see myself upon waking up in the morning. A glimpse of life from a different angle, viewed in plain black and white — sans filter. The truth is, I'm just making up excuses because the empty coffee mugs in front of me are bored of waiting as I struggle to tuck and tug the hems of my sentences neatly like how I do my ponytail.