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619
There are poems inside of me
that papers can't handle.
They burn in my chest
like the thread of a candle.
Screams wanting to be inked,
and if I do, they'll seem like rambles.
The threads ignite a light,
all twists and tangles.
The penned ones are a glimpse
of the drama my heart gambles.
619
Never Home
I feel very homesick
for the arms that have
never once held me.
My hands still reach
for fingers they've
never intertwined with.
My shoulders ache
for the weight of a head
that has never
rested there.
They say home is where
the heart rests.
Mine keeps reaching
for a door
that was never
mine to begin with.
Perhaps some people
carry homes
they were never
meant to stay in.
– Iris
619
Why try and separate me from my grief?
For I—and grief flow together.
There's no me, without grief.
I live with grief running in my blood.
There's no partition of me and grief.
It's so deeply rooted in me—I cannot imagine myself without it.
Grief is a part of my heart.
I work and function with grief in me.
There's no way, me and grief can be parted—without me, losing myself.
619
Why try and separate me from my grief?
For I—and grief flow together.
There's no me, without grief.
I live with grief running in my blood.
There's no partition of me and grief.
It's so deeply rooted in me—I cannot even imagine myself without it.
Grief is a part of my heart.
I work and function with grief in me.
There's no way, me and grief can be parted—without me, losing myself.
619
Repost from Iris's Diary
Picture the world as a grand stage,
where people wear masks and act so sage.
Behind those smiles, they’re hurting or worse,
living in pain or committing a curse.
The chaos is forever present,
people always acting, their suffering evident.
Trying to ignore their sorrows and suffering,
while others don’t hesitate to do the buffering.
Touching, molesting, killing is all that can be seen,
the stage turns grim with blood and unseen.
Silent screams, wrenching weeps, chilling creeps,
hide behind masks, where the real pain seeps.
The act is so nice, that nobody can define,
who did what, and blame the soul lost in time.
The viewers are blind, for not rising to fight,
the culprit snickering, unaware of the night.
The world won’t let them go and celebrate,
after taking innocent lives, they can’t dictate.
Justice will be served, sooner or later,
if not by people, then by the hand of fate.
- Iris
619
"Why Would Anyone Love Me?"
You know how people say,
"Why would anyone ever love you?"
Perhaps they're right.
Why would anyone love me?
I'm neither as beautiful
nor as delicate as a flower bud.
I possess neither the strength of roots,
nor a melodious voice.
My eyes aren't intoxicating.
I cannot sing,
nor can I paint.
I am neither the blossom,
nor the thorn.
I am only like the green stem,
holding the flower above me,
while carrying the thorns within.
I am only like a writer,
weaving countless stories
inside myself.
Without thinking,
without knowing,
I simply keep writing.
I wish I were like water
that you could drink.
But I am like seawater—
so unbearably salty
that drinking me is impossible;
you wouldn't even
bring me to your lips.
And so I find myself
thinking the same thing again—
Why would anyone
love me?
For I am no longer
who I was yesterday,
and I will not remain
who I am today.
– Iris
619
My Silly Brain
I was about to write.
Sit with my pen and paper,
ready to pour out
the universe of my imaginations.
But oh, foolish me!
How did I forget?
Stupid brain, it doesn't work like that.
It won't make scenarios
when I want it to.
It will create a mess,
right in between a debate,
when my thoughts have to be stable!
But this mind?
No, it won't concentrate,
but rather wander off to some
purplish island instead!
It will create a mess,
right in between an argument
or between the most
earth-shaking conversation
or between those sweet moments
when I should be present
in the present.
And not lost in some
weird yet pretty universe!
A solar system birthed
inside the membranes
of my silly brain.
Tonight, I will complain!
To the one creature I see
on the island, roaming freely.
"Why can't you show up when I want you to?
Why make me pout and dream in the pink?
Why not when I pick up this pen and bend?
Answer me, my universe,
my creation, my imagination!"
But oh, foolish me!
How did I forget?
Silly brain, it doesn't work like that.
It won't make scenarios
when I want it to.
Still, the colors are all so pretty,
this world is where I smile truly.
In my head, a silly little creation,
the purple island and
the pink elephant!
This sounds so childish and giddy,
but what if I say this is a reality?
To me, in my mind,
this is where I dance and shine.
– Iris
619
Your room, your home, your phone, your books, your channel, your laptop—things that are yours, yet suddenly feel unfamiliar, as if they no longer belong to you.
