Why Does Emptiness Hurt So Much,

On that day when you stumbled away,

I thought I had a Deja Vu.

Like we've been together before.

And like we've said the same goodbyes before.

It was like looking up at the sky and suddenly seeing a star.

One that I've never seen before but felt like I always have.

You leaving me felt like it was always written.

Maybe I have been blind all this time.

The light from you smile belittled every single flaw you had.

So when suddenly you stopped smiling and turned away,

my sky became so dark that it almost felt like I could see the heavens up above.

And in there I saw our tale.

How it was told so that it could end.

Perhaps I've read this story before and cried to it too.

But strangely when it has become the story of my life,

my tears have abandoned me and I am alone.

And the emptiness in me was the way your eyes looked when they landed on me.

I thought you gave me life.

But you did not.

You just darkened the lifeless parts of me even more.

And now I lay in the sand, looking up at the blood moon.

The only red in me is the reflection of the moon in my cold eyes.

Like the millions of stars in the black sky,

now you can never find me when it's bright.

On lightless nights find the darkest portion of the sky.

There you can see me swimming in the abyss of black.

But still trying to stay awake till dawn,

till the light of the sun kills me,

like your smile once did.

I wanted us to become a lovely story.

But we were just flashbacks of a story that was never written.

“Don’t say maybe if you want to say no.”

— Paulo Coelho

Grab your dreams in your hands and sprinkle them while you take a walk. Let the others after your time follow the trail and find their own treasure. Because even if you didn't make it, at least they will. And that means you did make it. Planting hope in the depth of a soul is the closest that we humans can come to being gods.

We are all someone's hero if not our own.

I asked......

Would you consider yourself, a hero?

Everybody is put here for a reason. Some of us are put here for others to look at and be the example of what not to do. Some put here for them to aspire to. Be the reason another person succeeds. Someone you want to be like. Maybe a hero, maybe a mentor. It's up to us to follow, or be, whichever one we choose.

Would you read your own story?

Or maybe, a question within your story.

The story of your life.

Would you read that story? Would you read the ending? What if the story told everything? Past, present, and future. What if?

What if your story told of every adventure you’ve ever had? If the story told of your heartbreaks and loves? If that story was the truth? And told as only the truth could read? Not like you’d like to remember at times.

If the story told about the highest highs, and the lowest lows? The times that you nearly gave up, and the times you owned the world? Your world.

If the story looked ahead to things not known to you yet? The events and people that will shape your destiny? New people. New hopes, and new tears. New love. The chance to live a long life, or a death that is as sudden as an eye blink.

Would you read that story?

Would it read like you would want?

Would you be the hero of your own story? Righting past wrongs. Living a full life. Or, would you waste the very ink it was written with? A story not worth telling.

Maybe, that is your question. Maybe you should ask yourself that very thing before your story is written.

A question within a story.

The story of your life.

And I asked this, because her story is still unfolding.

It could be considered a tragedy, be she herself wrote out that part.

So, when I asked her, “do you consider yourself a hero”, her answer was simply,

“I don’t know. Maybe some people see me that way. But I think we all rise above situations in life and we can all be hero’s.”

Be someones hero.

poem and photo by pangarina-angelin-a

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My art is rough around the edges.

Like me, like the way I sometimes feel.

It has its seasons and its draughts.

Somedays, it flows easily.

Too easily.

And those days scare me a little.

Somedays I have to ground myself in it,

be cautious and aware of each stroke.

Those days are the most peaceful.

But yet somedays feel like a forever,

between me and my palette.

I may not be an artist yet.

But there's art in me.

And I see it all around me.

It does not matter,

thhat I can't put a label on the way the brush feels in my hands.

Artist or not, I have a home in colors.

A place to lose myself, and sometimes to discover myself.

Infinte possibilities at the end of my brush,

sprawled like lightning strikes on my dirty desk.

The only thing I know are the songs in my head,

when I close my eyes and think of the next color.

It becomes a little easier to breathe,

when I am surrounded by the smell of paints.

Forever grounded to the carefree version of me,

with the added weight of a tube of color.

Everything falls into place,

the world stays still in a haze.

Everytime I hold a brush and paint,

somewhere in me is born a little girl.

Again.

The yellow letter sits on my table.

Edges worn and writing faded.

A faint scent of sandalwood and lavender,

is all that lingers where your hands once roamed.

I've kept it close to me all these years.

In hopes you'll write one again.

But that's all it has been.

Hopes that seemed hopeless to begin with.

I cannot bring myself to crumple it.

Or tear it into small bits.

Deep down I am scared.

Your words have become a second breath to me.

Almost as if I'll die if I stop thinking about them.

We never said goodbye.

But you did say you were bored of this love.

Maybe it's time I threw it away.

The tiny piece of paper that held me a prisoner all these years.

Time for a fresh new me.

One where I don't give up my heart to random strangers.

With a racing heart and a head full of doubts,

I take up the paper and read it again.

For the last time,

I remember your face.

I remember how much in love I was.

And for a final time,

I trace my fingers over your words.

With love, you say,

but it's been dead for a while now.

And now, I think I'll bury it.

But the doorbell rings and I sigh.

The man seems amused by my tears.

He hands me the box all the same,

and then walk away with a good day.

I open the box and there you are.

Smiling from the past like you're still here.

Another piece of paper fall into my lap.

Your words stare at me again.

Fresh scents of sandalwood and lavender fills me.

With love, you say again.

I almost laugh out but then catch myself.

It's wrong to laugh at the dead.

But I still smile, happy.

I held onto you for so long.

And finally when I began to let you go,

you've just gone on.

Maybe what kept you alive for so long was me.

Afterall how could death drag you down,

when I whispered your name to the passing wind,

and wrote it in sand over and over again.

Maybe that's why certain love are born.

To keep the other alive and breathing.

And with every breath I take now,

I remind myself there's someone for me too.

© Moonyloonywitch

01/09/2021

There's a pool of sadness in my being.

And sometimes I can hear it sing.

An eerie voice lingering long after it ends.

Accompanied by ghostly visions of the past.

Sometimes it sings at dawn.

And sometimes it sings when I am asleep.

But always, always, it sings only when I am alone.

The constant hum has a blue softness.

Almost like the way my smile looks on my tired days.

But on rare days the hum becomes a vibrant violet.

And feels like the shade of the magic in my eyes.

The songs are about the things I hold in my heart.

Like the stories of my childhood times,

and the places where I left pieces of who I am.

But on nights when I can no longer fall asleep,

the songs take on a familiar tune.

They become the whispers of the restless sea,

and the slow crackling of the campfire on the shore.

It brings back the smell of the waves,

the vibrations of their crashing spreading through my bones.

For a brief moment, I become a child again.

Free to laugh and smile,

and free to sleep without the usual accompaniment of nightmares.

Even though all of this is in my head,

simply the long gone moments from my past,

the ghostly visions are what keeps me sane.

Reminding me that not always will life be so blue.

And that blue is not always so sad.

Knowing this, the pool of sadness sings on and on.

The humming taking on a sweeter tone.

© Moonyloonywitch

There are galaxies I must conquer within your eyes.

So no matter how many times you push me away, I'll stay.

Come back with more softness and gentle tones.

Listen to the songs of each star that you hold in your eyes.

Blowing a cool breeze when the fire inside them is too hot.

You will never lose me, not now, not in a million years.

For where there are stars and stories,

There'll always be me, soft breaths and touches of love.

Until the universe collapses on itself,

I shall hold your hand and craddle you close.