Nineteenth Entry

I heard you say my name,
As you dropped and tapped my window pane;
Making your way down in bliss,
And my name became a masterpiece.

I heard you sing a melody,
The one that’s been in my head.
As I patiently waited for your fall,
I hummed the song instead.

And so I whisper the feelings
I feel when you fall;
And let you soak my soul.
Your sound creeping to my deepest griefs,
And once again I am whole.

Dear you,

Nope.
It’s not the rain that you hate
But the memories that come crashing down
When the little drops meet the ground.
Those days you couldn’t replay,
Like a photo you could look back to,
But could never live on anymore.
The thought of a place you couldn’t be in,
As the tiny crystals shine in delight through your window pane.
It’s the song you used to sing,
But now you hate to hear
As the raindrops fall to the roof,
With the perfect melody
That hums as your heart beats.

Nope,
It’s not the rain you hate,
But the emptiness you feel,
For things you could’ve
or could’ve not done.
Nope,
It’s not the rain you hate.
You love the sound it creates,
Like a lullaby on sleepless nights.
You love how it make its way down
On your glass window
As you trace them with your fingertips.
You love how each drop feels
Against your skin
Against your palm,
Against your face
Welcoming every tear.
Nope,
It’s not the rain you hate,
But the things
that made you think you hate it.
So dear,
See how beautiful the rain is.
It does remind you of pain,
But mirth always comes with it.

With a drop of my own rain,
Vier.

Letters From Vier

Letters. They’re just letters. I might or might not send it. You might or might not read them. You might or might not want to write a response. Nonetheless, let me keep them. Let me scribble the words I could never say. Let me tell you what you should or should not know.  Just let me.

Let me write you a letter.

(Decided to create an fb page. Page name is on the title. You can visit if you’d like. Cheers!:))

100-Word Story: Just Suicidal

She was okay. She had a happy family. She had friends— only few but enough. She had a normal life, laughing with her friends on their crazy days. She might be sad at times, yet she never cried. Nobody saw her shed tears. She was always happy. So when her lifeless body was found lying on her bed, with a note clutched in her hand, everyone was dumbfounded. They couldn’t believe. They didn’t want to believe. They didn’t notice her sad eyes when she smiled. They’ve  thought she was okay, but her note proved otherwise—she had always felt empty.

She Who Writes

She who writes
About anything,
Almost everything,
That fascinates
Her senses—
Wonders how it would feel
To be a muse
Of someone else’s
Poetic piece.

She who writes
For others,
About others,
And letting them
Live through eternity
Inside the delicate pages
Of her memory—
Wonders how it would feel
To be someone else’s
Remarkable character
Of an unending story.

She who writes
About grief,
About bliss,
About emptiness,
About inscrutable fear—
Wonders how it would feel
To be someone else’s
Unbearable pain
And unexplainable mirth,
Though she roams afar
Or dangerously near.

She who writes
About every tear
That falls from above
And caught by the ground—
Wonders how it would feel
To be someone else’s
Tiny drop
Of rain
On a sunny day
Caught by each palm,
Kept inside each hand.

She who writes
Wants to be written,
To be marked by ink,
To be kept,
To be cherished,
To be remembered,
To be alive
Not for every living soul,
But for those
Who hold her heart.

Dear Vier,

Being alone doesn’t mean you’re lonely. It just means that you are comfortable with yourself.  You enjoy your own company. You know yourself better than anybody else. You like doing things on your own as you like the feeling of fulfillment it brings. You like watching the world go on as if it’s a movie scene. You like wandering on earth with no one to hinder your adventure. You like staying on the corner to have your own peace of mind. You like painting your own world with the colors that define you. You are just being you. No need to fret, no need to mind how people see you. No matter how they think that your a weirdo, that you are depriving yourself by not trying to fit in, you know better. You know that you’re doing just fine.  You are contented with the peace and simplicity of your world. You have a different way of having fun, yes, but you are happy. I know you are.

Typing with care,
3R

PS. Have a good night sleep. You deserve it.

Dear me,

How do you tolerate your own clumsiness, forgetfulness and stupidity? How do you tell your self that it’s okay to spill the coffee all over the table, trip yourself over in no particular reason, take note of what time you took your break only to come back late because you forgot the time, or do a simple kitchen task only to burn yourself and be reminded by the scars?

How do you accept your own kind of weird thoughts? How do you tell yourself that it’s normal to wonder about death and afterlife right after watching a romantic comedy movie, to let your mind wander before drifting to sleep, or to be fascinated by the thought of rain pouring on a sunny day?

How do you deal with your own demons? How do you tell your self that it’s fine not to forgive and forget  as you just don’t want for bad things to relive, to be not expressive thru words or actions as you weren’t born that way, to cry out of frustration and anger but not be able to shed tears due to pain, to prefer being alone yet contented than be lonely within a crowd, to push people away in fear of them leaving,  or to blame yourself almost everytime and sulk in the corner?

How do you love your whole being despite the things you hate about your self?  Sometimes, you really don’t. But who else will, if you won’t?

I still don’t know how, but I sure will learn in no time.
——–