Prena Poetry

This is just another day, which goes by with a hesitation to accept that I’m just a normal human being, living my youth and falling in love with the things that surrounds me.

Of course, this is just another ordinary day
where I find myself begging my lungs to breathe and crumbling sheets of unfinished stories with misspelled words and wrong structures.

And I hate it. I hate it.

How i have to bite my tongue to stop the words before I listen to the world’s opinion.
I hate it. How i draw circles after circles and
create curves at the edge of the drawing paper cause nothing really come in my mind. And nothing really transfixes me at a point and tell me this is what I should do.

And I so much hate it, that I am me
who has the audacity to feel the entire universe revolve beneath my bones but never has the courage to tell the world what it is like to be in this skin and watch the things change rationally.

Maybe this is all I am and all I will be that even after eons, the characters I half created will still chant my name but will never be able to stretch out of the paper that I once stitched them into. The circles will get tired, the structures will fall, the lights will fade and nothing will really be the same. But then, even after my death I will still be here as a part of the universe that no one will remember and neither will be forgotten.