Prena Poetry

there is always a preceding horror about writing down stories; the art that haunts the depths, direfully claws the insides of my chest; it’s like a hundred fists clasping within, all unable to describe this colossal conundrum of a human mind.

love, you see, i don’t exactly remember when it was that a little girl picked up this aestheticism for such foreboding misery. but i tell people i was eight, and yet i have never once wrote happy endings. the masterpiece i hold within forgot how to bleed as soon as it knew my first love was loneliness.

it’s a modern civilization; our little houses on the mountains are now electric poles. our children have have become like hollow rods that breaks on the very touch of veracious visions. it’s a modern city—packed with plastic sentiments birthing to perilous fragile hearts. i wake up to this blaring cacophony—still grateful for this life. i wake up with death gripping the back of my throat. however, i have been loved and treated with kindness, i have been blessed and gifted with a life far effortless.

but if you ask, i have nothing to offer in the end. there’s no story, there was never a story written too. love, i know nothing about the reflection i see of myself, it’s just a golden mirror, and flesh and hair staring back. i love nothing about the body or the mind i was born with. i am just a soul encountering magic and miseries of the earth. i am just a soul, i only want to be freed.