Died Flowers

I don't know what changed, maybe I did or maybe everyone else just goes with the flow but I'm stuck on trying to make everyone else laugh on my jokes and it eventually dies down. I don't know what changed, maybe they found no more interest in me and I feel empty from not being searched for anymore and not being loved as a close friend like I used to be. It still matters, trying to make my close friends laugh to my jokes or just simply notice I am always there with them. It still matters until I feel like it almost doesn't anymore, like I'm just another one of those annually thrown-out-of-the-group annoying girls we 'threw', annually since seventh grade. My closest friend since sixth grade ditched me for her phone, I was never that close to my other two friends, and the other one who I shared secrets with also distanced away, but at least not so much. At least she still appreciates me. I don't feel like being one of them anymore, I don't even know why I ever was in the first place. Was it just a bond over the same acquaintance, forced by the universe in a join everyone else is scared of? I don't even feel like that. I don't even know what I want anymore. 

The point is, my friends don't feel like they're my friends anymore, and who knows what changes or what shifted in our plates of our little strong-bonded called universe, but it changed. And I feel it deep to my soul. And it hurts, you know. It hurts that they don't look for me, they don't even notice if I was there or not, and they just don't care. Maybe I'm being harsh on these words and I'm overreacting, as my closest friend would say that I'm too pessimistic. There isn't any denial in that state she gave. But really, I am tired on being pushed around, having to please everyone else, but if I stayed quiet they all think I'm mad. I'm tired of everyone thinking of that. These days I feel like I want to disappear into another life, and just try to start over everything, not fuck it up like I always did. I don't know if I did or if it's just a change in our little universe, but like I said, it had changed. But if there's a question about what will I do then, I won't know what the answer is, either. 

Rant

I used to write stories with my wandering imagination. Thoughts of places I had wished to live in, the life of the people I had wondered to live, what are their thoughts, what do they feel everyday? So I invented a fictional little life that was revolving around only in those papers. Honestly, writing felt like being God. God of this little life I was creating with black ink on blank white paper, and a touch of wild imagination. It was up to me what that life would be, how the people looked like, what their thoughts are. It was like magic, being lost in my living, but dead creation.

But I started to live real life, not that I lived a fake one before. I felt love, or at least I thought I felt it. It was a complicated thing, and when all my thoughts had been filled with only that one person, it felt magical and surreal. It was't quite unfamilliar, as I was easily attracted to guys even since before I still wrote my life-but-dead creation. But this was different. He filled my whole 24/7, and my imagination was almost replaced by thoughts of him, and of us. 

That was when I started to write poetry. All of my thoughts, that are now of him and us, all of my real feelings (this creator's feelings; not the feelings she created on her little life) were poured into the blank papers, stories replaced by poetry. Even when I was mad, or filled with lust, or having other unnamed complicated feelings (e.g.: wanting to be one with the sea, feeling the pull of the waves, that feeling when you look at the gray sky [but it wasn't sad], the relaxed feeling of listening to electronic indie music, etc.), I write. But I write poetry, and it is my activity closest to therapy. 

I don't know if my ability to write imaginative stories and life plots is still there, but I am comfortable now in writing poetry about my real feelings. 

Because I personally think poetry doesn't have to make sense. Call me stupid, but great poets write linguistic complicated poetries which I don't recall to understand, and therefore makes it non-understandable: it doesn't make sense. It makes sense to other people who have a high rate of intelligence, but to us teenagers? It doesn't make any sense.

So when I write poetry, as long as it expresses how I feel: possibly too tired / angry to think, which resulted in poetry with no metaphors, just straight thoughts at the time, or vice versa, then it is poetry to me. Because I don't write poems in terms of other people's enjoyments in my writing, no. I write poems as a a way to express how I feel, in my own words, and being so much more free. Freedom to speak; in this case, to write. 

But overall, all I was trying to say is that I love literary. Not the heavy ones, just the light ones. Literary is my therapy, perhaps the thing that keeps me sane everyday. The kind of literary I am interested in nowadays, as you have read, is in poetry. But I used to write stories, and even now I am writing a rant about my love in literary. Well, cheers.  

They Who Once Had Love

There was no mistake / in the sparks that flew / when their eyes met / and they joked together// There was no mistake / in her smile and stares / his love for her that day / the day she refused to accept his love// There was no mistake / in either one of them / that they still had something / ‘til the day everyone thought / it was all lost and gone // There was no mistake / when I tried / to fit in between them / and couldn’t break their spark / and ended up feeling / like how I was that day / when she refused his love / which I wanted as bad / as a drowning man grasping for air // History was upon them / history was to be drawn once more / which flew back from the past / and dawned on their eyes / to sparks that flew between them / their love for each other / that was never on the same time // It was beautiful, you see / if I was / someone else.

Decressendo

Oh where the stars collide

Filling the vortex of cosmo

Empties the universe

The bursting sorrow

The jolting pain

Oh where the field of flowers

Burn in the blasting red

No, they aren’t roses

Air was smoke

If I could vaporate

Empty dark ocean

Rolling waves: continuous

Which I have wished to be

Deep down there that time

They looked at each other

There is no neglecting

In how the moon used to be in love

With the wolf

But never on the right time

But I am an astro dot

In the sky at night

Right beside the moon

Completing, but

Never could we be

Really together

Society

If I would only

See the world

In other terms

What would it

Be like

People, socialism

Society judging

Everyone

I would know

And I would

Change it

The Way I Do

The night is calmer

The waves rushes like always

I feel the sand underneath me

Like I always feel of you

In my veins

Running in my head

The wind blows my hair

I close my eyes and

I think of you

Again and again

You are always there

Running in me

Think about me someday

In that way

Miss me like I do you

You’re all I think of

If only you knew

That I

Have this feeling

For you

That I love you

Not the way you do me

But the way

Two people love each other

The way when they

Look at each other

Full of magic

Full of love

Until the sun comes

And the sand becomes warm

Underneath me

But you’re always warm

In my mind

Running in every

Beat of my heart

The sea crashes again

Like always

Like nothing ever changes

In this world

When all we do

Is change

I miss you

And I think

I love you

(g.t.)