Prena Poetry

my mother walks into the room with a coffee mug in her hand and tells me that i should go out, i should speak more when the guests arrives and i shouldn’t act so miserable.

but how am i to convince my mother that i am not the daughter she wanted me to be. how can i make her understand i have got no friends. i have no one to share my paintings with or talk about some conspiracy theory i like or just sit and share the silence. everyone is out there telling me that i am doing my best, patting my back and reading my clichè poetries. but no one wants to know the person underneath this flesh. and i wonder if anyone, in any lifetime would ever want to touch the universes i feel inside this body or just let me lean on their shoulders while i shed rivers that has accumulated over the years.

i mean it gets so lonely at times. and i don’t know if i can ever escape this slow, stale and uncharming fate. if i can ever stop running in circles with the stones tied to my feet.

maybe i can’t.

maybe i deserved this. for not trying hard enough to be someone worth. for not giving kindness when i should have. for not loving this life like i was supposed to do.

— prena |  look at me, such a waste of a human life.