When was the last time you felt
As if you were in the moment.
And the simple joys of just being in that moment
When was the last time your heart sang?
And you allowed it to feel.
Or are we always running
And always lost
Because it’s easier
Not to feel?
I’ve stopped fearing change.
And the people that I love
Who will come to dislike these changes.
Because though birds may flock together,
My feathers have never been the same.
There’s no one to blame,
When I’m the one wearing this painted skin.
So don’t be afraid if your wings,
Turn into fins.
There’s something about knowing.
How hearing a stranger’s laugh,
Can feel nostalgically familiar,
Like an old friend you once knew.
Or the way they drink their coffee
Becomes oddly endearing
As if you have done this
Many, many times before.
Can you know without knowing?
Maybe, or maybe not.
But I can feel.
There’s something about me that is a little vile
As if it has never seen the light.
Pushed down, down and down
So that it can never be seen or felt.
But I saw it briefly today,
And broke into tears.
How lonely it must have felt down there
To be abandoned
Alone and ashamed.
When all it ever wanted, was to see the light.
Sometimes when I think a wound has healed,
It’ll suddenly open again
With just a word from her.
I guess this karma must be bone deep
For me to feel apathy, to resent her choices
And yet, to love her.
Aren’t we just victims to this thing called life?
Perhaps there’s no future or past,
With time running all at once.
And all we really have,
Is now and this moment.
A recurring theme.
It is always our strange fascination with labels,
That causes us pain, it seems.
I’m not made to stay.
Whether it is in a place,
Or in myself.
If you want to leave
Then you can leave.
Why would I feed your ego
When you can easily be replaced?
For a moment,
I think I would have found you
In each and every lifetime.
I’ve come to chase your shadows
Time and time again.
So instead of grabbing smoke,
I’d rather look in the mirror
And find myself.
It’s easy to get lost
When your voice is one of many.
I used to think that if I said
What they wanted to hear,
Then they would keep me near.
And slowly, even I,
Forgot what my own voice sounded like.
I used to write stories
Where everyone was the main character
And when the scene finished,
They would easily leave,
Except for me.
What did I do that was so wrong
That they had to leave