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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:

— 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…

— 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. …

— a short non-fiction of potpourris.

Before we return to chaos and mayhem.

Photo by August de Richelieu from Pexels

It took numerous turns to say that I have grown an awful lot since I first tried to comprehend adulthood. Albeit I’ve lost count of how many times I consumed my reflection in the mirror, I must’ve become one without realizing it. If not, what could better explain these thoughts I’m having?

But how did I know that I’m not being completely leathered or delusional?

Well, it all comes down to the thing that elates me the most. The thing that makes me feel like I’m soaring through the seventh heaven despite remaining glazed and lifeless on the outside.


— a poem of potpourris

Will I see you in my next?

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

I’ve never been so close to your eyes;
those luminous brown, in living color.
Those lustrous yet fearless stare
could make mountain swear despair.

I try my best to fathom;
to unravel your jumbled thoughts.
An enigma like no other
with sultry lips that won’t stutter.

In a trice, I’m caught in your arms
Heaven-like touch wrapping all over
I’m no longer myself indeed,
as I drown in your sweet nothings.

As I told you of my plans, my desire to keep you close,
you ecstatically smile from ear to ear.
Yet when we lean for one last kiss,
I’m awakened from my sleep.

As sad as it may seem,
My dream is the only place where we’d meet.

— a poem of potpourris.

There’s no turning back the clock.

Photo by Anete Lusina from Pexels

I seek a way
to articulate and for you
to comprehend
how the greatest, happiest version
of yours truly
have long been corrupted by
you; both my savior and reaper.

With the scythe as your words,
with both fists as your mouth,
your temper muffled mine
and your sadness labels ‘victim’.

Yet, I will not provide
this thought a voice,
nor control
over both my being and state.
I will not give it any power
over my name,
nor will I let
it define
why I exist
as you happened to be my choice too.

And I will outgrow these thoughts of you.

— a poem of potpourris.

I see you.

Her words would roam around inside my head
stomping untravelled paths;
trespassing without care.

Her words would drag me down with no remorse
each tabulated inside my mind;
bursting to the seams.

Her words would haunt every corner
lurking shadows they’ve become;
weighing, silently swarming.

Her words should indeed exist no more
for she is no longer near,

Yet her words have become my own;
none other than what defines my existence.
But as the season changes,
I know they’ll soon come to an end.

To you,
whose lives are controlled by the sayings of the beasts,
Yes, I see you.
I know you’ll outgrow them one day.

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