Prena Poetry

it’s raining. and i look out of my uncomfortably tall window. there are children jumping on the puddle, their mother rabidly pulls them away and closes the door. now there is only a sad puddle left, filling up minute after minute. i miss my childhood because i never jumped on the puddle like those kids. i only slided my hands and collected the raindrops falling off the roof. maybe it was fun or maybe i just felt alone my entire childhood.

i will turn 19 in a month from now. i reassure, i have everything, everyone and an entire world waiting out there for me. and yet when i look at my naked body and hands, when i look up at the ceiling on weeks of horrible nights i cannot fall asleep, i have nothing, i know almost nothing.

then i run my fingers through words of bukowiski, he gave me life that no one could. i wonder if he ever felt loved by his family. however, i am loved, by so many people i don’t even know, and i too love every piece of this world. i think i just can’t love myself enough.

sometimes i feel like the protagonist in Kafka’s Metamorphosis, constantly stuck in the same continnum of nihilism circling back to its core. but i am too young to even get tired of life. i don’t lie when i say i love life; i achingly love life, at the same time i am also not scared of death. like when i look into the mirror, i am almost verses of Sylvia Plath’s works; her obsession for morbidity in every beautiful word she made the world read. and some morning when i wake up, the quality of this reality feels like i am almost in Orwell’s setting of 1984; crushed by the system that nourishes this youth only to enslave the working years in a place that wouldn’t even feel like home.

well, i guess, i am a spectrum of emotions dropped into a sinking loophole where i almost carry the sadness of Murakami’s Norwegian woods. i am alot of person put into one body. i am. i am so much and yet so less in the end.