a Different Kind of Poem

Not every poem wears the shape of love,
some carry the weight of warmth unspoken,
the echo of footsteps down quiet halls,
the hush before dinner is served.

Watched something last night, "1 Kakak 7 Ponakan",
faces I didn’t know felt like mirrors.
The way they laughed, argued, stayed,
like they had nowhere else to be
but with each other.

It made me wonder,
when was the last time I looked around
and saw enough?

There are days this place feels too quiet.
But maybe it’s not the silence
that’s hollow,
maybe I’ve just forgotten
how full it really is.

They say time spent
is the only thing we never truly own.
Some spend it on screens,
some in rooms filled with laughter.
Not everyone gets to choose.

And me?
I’ve been chasing loud things,
forgetting that the softest hours,
the ones spent doing nothing
with people who’ve always been there,
are the rarest kind.

We search so far
for what’s already sitting
across the table.

Comments

Not Even Stay

Today, I just finished two seasons of Ginny & Georgia. and I don’t know, sometimes I feel like Ginny, sometimes I feel like Georgia. like a daughter, unseen, misunderstood, or a young mom, fighting silent battles just to protect the ones she loves. but you know what? at least Ginny had Marcus and Hunter. Hunter, who truly loved her. and Marcus, who knew her, stayed with her, saw the wreckage and still chose to stay. there was this scene, Ginny told Marcus she couldn't trust anyone, because Georgia, her own mother, once warned her: "Don’t trust anyone. Especially a man." but Marcus, broken in his own ways, held space for her pain, and chose not to walk away. and that’s the tragedy, isn’t it? I don’t have a Marcus or a Hunter. or even a Georgia. each day I wake up, facing everything alone, learning not to rely on anyone, not because I want to, but because every time I try to show who I really am, every time I open up even just a little, they all leave. Not even stay.

Saturn

one night, the sky turned gold, and silence felt like gravity, soft, invisible, inescapable. it told me; this too is part of becoming. i used to think home had walls. now I know it’s what lingers, like rings around a quiet planet. so I carry Saturn in my skin, not to escape, but to stay grounded while I learn how to float.

the kind of luck

not again, please.. not again. every time I watch a love story unfold, on screen, in ink, in the glow of moving frames, beyond the moral stitched between scenes, i wonder. how is it that every girl there is a universe of perfection? each one already paired with a man who speaks her storms, who reads her silence, who waits at the edge of her shadows with a lantern in hand? i mean, not every girl has that kind of luck. the kind where kindness is constant, where someone stays, not because she’s flawless, nobody is, but because he chooses her in every imperfect moment, no matter what comes.

unlimited words.

Search This Blog