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All Rights Reserved — Finishing BBA whilst filling this jar of writings I called ‘potpourris’. Since you’re here, please, have a playlist: shorturl.at/sEP16.

— a poem of potpourris.

Can you feel my thoughts?

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

These blushed cheeks yearn for that sweet gaze of yours,
every time I lost the courage
to meet them halfway.

These senses of mine long for yours
as I solely wait for your hand
to brush mine again by accident.

This being awaits for your return;
for our warmth to align once more;
to feel your sorrow and hold you close
to rest your form on the bed against mine
to fondle your lonely lips and stow a kiss
to finally meet your gaze midway,
before we’re lost amongst the sheets; muddled,
over which are yours and mine alone.

This girl loves you from afar
And wish you’d feel me feeling
all of the above and more,

This girl contemplates the day
where it’d be you by the side of her bed
instead of him.


— a poem of potpourris

I need them closer

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

All these ideas flowing about
ceaselessly looking to dock
like a sailor missing home

Yet their form is weak; they flicker
It felt like a mere second of
appearance in my existence; soon forgotten.

I must hurry
before I lose sight of them, before
my past ghosts suppress the prospect
of them becoming something more
something beautiful, life-saving
of myself and someone else.

I must hurry
for I tend to forget
for I tend to look away
over something mundanely trivial;
I know not of how to stop.

Even when I know
they’d only show up once
and they’ll be gone for good.
Please tell me what to do.

Please.


— a poem of potpourris.

There’s something about tonight.

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

There’s something about the air tonight
winter chills softly cramming in between
your music fits entirely right
each chord becomes the crowd
but never overwhelming.

It’s also how the skies are
weather stitching heaven-like patterns
and moonlight lingers around the ribs,
enchanting our limbs;
reluctant to leave.

But it’s mostly how you are.
With silent eyes; calm and placid
fixated fleetingly on my flawed entirety,
Arms and warmth wrapping tightly
whilst I sculpt a smile right there;
where the heartbeat ceases to exist.

I hope it stays like this; the memory at least,
I hope they remain still
even when you’ll creep
back to her in the morning.

Everything falls so wholly right
even when you’re not.


— a poem of potpourris.

But I’m still adjusting!

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

Golden butterflies fluttered here and there
A flock of sunflowers standing proudly tall
Aureate stretch as far as the eyes can see
Equally bright as the mighty rays of the sun.

I do not wish to tarnish its beauty
but my thoughts are spilling uncontrollably
my head, they’re indeed too heavy
my ghosts, they’re hauntingly filling.

I let my form embrace the vast field, soon after
frailty burst through my minute openings
I let out an ear-splitting roar that slit through the clouds,
the sycamore’s leaves and passerines flew to a sanctuary.

Golden butterflies flitted in front of my eyes…


— a poem of potpourris.

But my advice, just do it next time!

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

My heart rushes its beats without missing even one
Pain blankets my chest, cavorting all over
Each thump races faster than anything known
My weak self had indeed become its victim.

My lips tremble and my vision blurred
My knees fragile, my state delicate
My words were taken by God knows what
My soul wasn’t mine; God knows whose.

Standing gallantly in front was the
momentary stillness brought by
the glimpses of what could possibly be
if only I was brave enough to seize
what wouldn’t necessarily define me.

If only I was brave enough to
tell apart my wants from…


— a poem of potpourris.

(adj.) Sweet, with a bitter aftertaste.

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

It felt not like the coziest warmth. Rather,
a scorching flame sparked abruptly inside.
It was indeed painfully discomforting
but the crowd, they made me express otherwise.

Yes, the sound slurred subtly from your lips
What I normally would loop inside my head
That voice; yours, was on the whole angelic
but this one was too far from my liking.

It’s how I never thought would turn you cruel
but you’d never be at fault.

It’s the way you say her name
that would never sound as divine
as how you did mine.


— a poem of potpourris.

Let’s not let the past take control.

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

What this feeling?
endlessly choking and lurking about
What does it hold underneath?
Merely malice, just as I feared.

I know he’s here with me
but why doesn’t it feel like it?
Why does it matter, all of a sudden,
when they never had any weight?

Why does it matter?
His past; his scars,
healed yet see-through,
Why is she present?
The malevolent runaway who destroys life
out of hate and discontent.

They shouldn’t matter.
They happened before I arrived
to collect what he is and isn’t
that’s scattered across the void.

She doesn’t matter
Not now; not anymore
It’s entirely up to me to have him
or to not at all.

Let me go, in-between.


— an anecdote of potpourris.

But when will I finally let go?

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

I often find her sleeping so soundly on the floor, with nothing but her usual shell-pink blanket and her arm neatly wrapped as her pillow. Her sun-streaked, satiny flock would graciously flood her surroundings, but she had accidentally created waves of paper scattered across the carpet. She looked incredibly peaceful amongst that mess.

She knew that she needed to fill all of that paperwork by morning, but she couldn’t help it. Her eyes had no more strength to see or be seen by absolutely anyone or anything. They crave deep rest, even if it’s only for a while. …


— a poem of potpourris.

Why they often say, “Think before you speak.”

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

It started off small;
as harmless as a grain of salt.
An iota of a non-matter,
With hardly any pain in sight.

What once a grain soon turned to a glow
Beaming through day and night
Although it toyed around as we go,
I never gave much of a fight.

In a trice a feel burst from this twinkling light
a sense I thought you had suppressed;
a drive that once took control
of myself and how I’d act.

I admit this feeling is rather different. …

Lita Tiara

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