Prena Poetry

that lady who couldn’t be loved, now wears cruelty like an armored jewelry. that blue t-shirt man on the bus you take every morning; he is still in love with his divorced wife. he still cares for this children who refuses to call him dad. and almost every night, that girl in neon-red hair and skechers on the street cries infront of her bed ridden brother, the same brother who slit his wrist over a heart break.

these are some stories of people we don’t know, strangers we might never be bound to but somehow, subtly connect into their lives. the child you smiled at this morning is now telling his mother about a kind stranger on the road. but the mother is chopping cabbage and she cuts her finger, remembering how she has to protect her child born out of rape. she’s afraid—even afraid of love or the very idea of good people in the world. so she just tells her naive son to avoid strangers.

now you get home with a heavy heart, quite unaware of why a nostalgia looks like a house with photo frames of people you don’t know but feels like you have loved them. and you think, someday, you will be gone—

your past, present and future, all becomes a bundled up memories residing in the heart and mouth of those who loves you. we are all stories, written out of love and life and misery. we all become stories in the end. all the people, all the lovers and dreamers and heart aching abstracts existing in all the different chapters of one beautiful book