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Da Capo al Poetry

Dim lights, pencil and a paper
And the music which completes me.

Calling unto words of amber,
Aching for a touch of sacred,
Painting feelings—notes and poems
Of another world—forever.

All I am, two joys colliding:
Love for poetry and music.

Painting tremor, vibrant spirit,
Oasis is the written canvas;
Echoing through my whole being,
Tender notes are born, igniting
Realigned suns—constellations.
Yes, I yearn for words and music.

I went back to the beginning,
I have found myself again.

– Patricia

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I find comfort in small talk

Larger-than-life smiles
Spreading so easily on cordial faces with
Happy-go-lucky attitudes.
Only passing strangers chatting cheerfully for a while
Without the burden of being the main character.

For
If I could choose
I would much rather be
Not even the supporting character
But an extra briefly appearing on screen for 3.1557 seconds
With a smile on their face
Not having a care in the world
And always that: a passing figure seemingly content
Without having to dig deeper for a spectrum of emotions—
At the very most becoming “Woman with Dog #1.”

If I could choose
I would much rather be the stranger
Exchanging pleasantries,
Sounding like they’re in control and
Know what they’re doing with their life
Rather than be the main character,
Painfully self-conscious, always having to reach decisions,
Ruminating during every living moment,
Worried about not living my life to the fullest,
Facing the amalgam of one-second sand grains
Swiftly falling from the upper glass bulb of life
Into the lower half, weighing me down.

So you see,
No matter how superficial you may deem such conversations to be,
I find comfort in small talk.

– Patricia

Snowmen and Sandcastles

I built my snowman in the middle of winter—
It was January and I had found myself again:
Made of pure, untouched snow that had covered
The infertile dark soil of me who’d hit rock bottom.
I picked up two coals from the dirt that I lay in—
When I saw the grey skies opening wide,
When frozen tears started to cover me whole—
Daily reminders of where I had lain and
Binoculars for my journey ahead.
I shiveringly waited for the amalgam of ice crystals
To finish their slow waltz—breathe and count to thirty—,
Then I made my first snowball since I was eleven
And rolled it in the unstained ice feathers
Till I’d laid the foundations of my soon-to-be snowman.
Then followed the torso with a hole in the left side
(For spring is yet to come to offer me daffodils),
Then came the last snowball and I gave it eyes and
A grey-pebbled smile. And the carrot nose, of course.

I built my snowman in the middle of winter—
It was January and I had found myself again.
Then someone came along when I was finally sound asleep and
Knocked over my snowman and went on with their life.

I stayed up all night hopelessly waiting for a second snow.

I built my sandcastle in the middle of summer—
It was July and I had found myself again.
I’d been drowning in shallow waters and just as I’d surrendered
My body to the rip currents of the merciless sea,
New waves carried me ashore where I coughed up salt water,
My lungs screaming for air every step of the way.
I then lay there unmoving, blinded by sunlight,
Soaking up every last bit of warmth I could get,
Till it pierced my frozen veins and arteries, warming me whole.
I felt the gritty wet sand all over my body
And the sea waves numbing the pain.
I dug a hole to trap the sea water and
Dripped the wet sand off my unfaltering fingers:
All the beige and the brown and the grey of the numbness
Making up the castle of my long-lost fairy-tale dreams.

I built my sandcastle in the middle of summer—
It was July and I had found myself again.
Then someone came along when I was sleepily sunbathing and
Knocked over my sandcastle and went on with their life.

But you see
I now have more water and sand than meets the eye.

– Patricia

Little Red

Through the long-forgotten forest
Hide and seek let’s go and play.
I’ll be Little Red and you’ll be
The Big Bad Wolf. Come, let us play! | Fine

No one has to know our secret,
It’s a little game we play.
And the big, forgotten forest’s
Just the right place, like always.

Count to ten and I’ll start running,
But don’t peek or else I’ll pout!
I’ll make sure to let you win but
I want to put up a fight.

I will hide among the mushrooms
And you’ll pass by me unfazed
By the red caps and the white dots
Camouflaging me for now.

Then I’ll sneak behind your back and
Hop towards my nana’s house
With my basket full of goodies
That you—famished—want to steal.

And I’ll hop among the green ferns
Covering my body whole.
You won’t see me but you’ll pick up
My vague scent and follow it.

I will hear your famished howl
And will hurry along the path.
I’ll make sure to find a stone to
Clumsily trip over and fall.

While I cry over my scraped knees,
You will show your big white teeth.
I’ll forget my now-spilled basket
And hide in my nana’s arms.

You’ll come pound on our locked door and
Growl how it’s all unfair,
While we’re safe between our four walls,
Sighing relieved that I’ve won.

Oh, don’t worry, there’s a next time!
Promise, I will let you win!
One day. But for now, I want to
Live to see another day.

Come, come, our little game is
Lots of fun, don’t you agree?
I let you catch up to me and
Make the chase be worth the wait.

That way, when you’ll finally catch me,
All your horrid pent-up rage
Will ensure that I won’t suffer
For too long. It’s only fair.

Come now, daddy, you will win soon!
There’s no huntsman with a gun
To protect us from your big arms,
Your big ears and eyes and teeth!

Come now, daddy, I’ll make sure to
Let you win when nana’s gone
Just like mommy. You won’t have to
See her in me every day.

But for now, I’ll just be selfish
For a little while more.
I still want to play tomorrow,
So let’s play when I come home!

Da Capo al Fine

– Patricia

Sat in Silence

She quietly slumped on the muddy floor,
Defeated.
Countless needles pierced her ghostly skin,
Scalpels tearing at her lovely veins.
She sat in silence.

She spit out viscous tar,
Suffocating.
Burnt esophagus,
Acid-like saliva,
Blurred vision,
Stripped of lungs.
She’s nothing.

Consumed by pitch-black poison,
Succumbing to the chilling embrace
Of her handmade straitjacket,
She was bent on letting it all spill out
To neutralize her hatred-filled cadaver.

She sat in silence.

– Patricia

Blue Blood

He sat down near the lifeless body,
The stained blade boasting justice.
“What say you now?”—his vengeful scream
Was met with utmost silence,
The corpse defying him even now
With eyes as empty as his carcass.

His hardened gaze then fell upon
His trembling hands. He smirked.
“Look what you’ve made me do. Am I
Finally worthy?”—Silence.
He stood tall, pacing endlessly,
His footsteps ever condemning.

The marble floor, the white-tiled walls
All seemed to shrink and trap him.
He fought off claustrophobic thoughts,
Adrenaline still pumping
Through crimson blood—his real fault.
He knew then: “I’m still lacking.”

He came to a halt as sudden as
His urge from moments earlier,
When he had plunged the silver blade
Into the tender flesh of
The one who’d deemed him not enough,
Not now and never has been.

He turned to grab the mocking corpse,
Wanting to wipe off its proud smile,
The proof that he was lacking.
“Shut up!” he roared. The small, grey eyes
As cold as ever. He was sure:
Even in death he had disowned him.

“What use your noble blue blood now?”
He kicked the lifeless limbs. Silence.
“You bleed like commoners. Like me.”
He dipped his fingers in the crimson blood
Of the unmoving figure on the ground.
He let out a defeated laugh:
“You’ve won again, Father.”

– Patricia

Gone are the Days

gone are the days when I’d welcome meteorites
with an open heart
so that
they could warm it for a while
for they have gathered and gathered
on
top
of
each
other
and now
all I have are rocks
d
..r
….a
……g
……..g
……….i
…………n
…………..g
…………….me
down.

and I gasp for air.
but…?
nothing
seems to ease my mind
I have pecks of polluted rocks
on my brain
help.

falling stars, indeed
I lose control
my body falls to the ground
dragged by an
eviscerated heart.

there goes my
hope I
am cold
shivers go down
my spine
who knew
this is what
escapism
brings along.

don’t go hugging meteorites. they’re cold.

August

Bright red poppies, liberation,

Golden fields, murmurous springs,

Barefoot, daydreaming, reflection,

Books to read, moments to seize.

By myself, freedom, green forests,

Hiking, whispers in the wind,

Dark soils, teal skies, music,

Endless possibilities.

..

Riding on the water’s surface,

Touching blades of wild grass,

Sunset, sunrise—peachy, dreamlike,

Wildflowers and soft green moss.

Lively cities, friendly people:

Sonder. Sun. And wanderlust.

Crickets chirping and birds trilling,

Golden sand and azure seas…

This is August. This is home.