out of every ten poems I write, there are two, max three, that I like

and I’ve been writing for a long time


I’m too nostalgic to delete Wattpad, so I have a poem from 2013 titled “Do Not Erase”

it starts off, “do not efface your face with eyeliner and mascara, foundation and blush”

I haven’t watched enough YouTube videos to know what shade of blush goes with my skin tone, but this NYX mascara I took from my mom is AMAZING


and then there’s another poem from 2016, it’s a sonnet actually

I wrote it for my English class

it goes,

“to love, or not to love – that is the question

whether ’tis better better to fall in love or to fall apart, this i do not know

for they are one and the same”


it’s actually a really good piece, so i’m glad I still have it

cuz there are years of prose and tears that I’ll never get back


out of the seven poems I don’t like, there are four I just can’t read

because they hurt

that’s why I started writing, because I’d hurt

I’d get hurt and I wouldn’t know what to do or who to talk to, so I’d sit in my room and I’d write

you should’ve seen me in 2011, ranting to my nonexistent confidant about all the things that couldn’t possibly be happening

but they were

and I only know this because I still have that Hello Kitty notebook

I’m too nostalgic, so I haven’t burned it


I always knew not to play with matches, but it was a warm form of catharsis to watch tearstained papers turn into ash

I’d flush away the evidence and tell myself that it was finished, but deep down I knew that wasn’t right

I don’t use periods when I write

the waves of words wax and wane where they will, but there’s no shore to contain them

they need to squeeze through cracks and soar over waterfalls, so now, when the tears fall, I let them

when the words come, I write them


still, most of my poems seem to end with a silent “to be continued”

there are three that I like, four that hurt, and two that I haven’t finished

I just can’t

these pages are a testament to the fact that sometimes, I struggle to see what I see

sometimes I can’t make sense of it


some days I’ll sit and I’ll write til I hit blocks I can’t build with

it’s like having a puzzle you can’t finish because you decided to burn half of the pieces

I can’t even blame her, the old me

she’s a part of my poetry


out of those ten poems, the estimated ratio to quantify what I’ve produced, the one that remains is who I am

who I was

and who I will be

in every piece, there is me

every time I create, I’m mimicking the Creator, trying to make sense of the creation that I am

trying to find His satisfaction, trying to find appreciation

no matter how many pieces I write, songs I sing, prelims I pass (or fail)

no matter what I do, none of that matters if I can’t find the peace in who I AM says I am


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