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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.


Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

The thought of you slurring the softest ‘hello’
with the crescent moon, curved
and carved by your lips
with eyes that shred the ego of men
the figuring hourglass they all love to stare at.

The thought of you lying on my bedside,
one hand on the side, tracing your figurines
seems never-ending,
I’m as fragile as you are exposed.

I’m absolutely, pathetically,
helplessly sick in the mind
for I could not get you out of it.

— a poem of potpourris.

It’s better like this, no?

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

Even before he left his kiss on my lips
I had held him too close at heart.
I never did want to own his being, yet
I gave him a fragment of mine, my most cherished.

I knew a love like his wouldn’t last to keep
Such a feeling had came along with the kiss
It’s now rooted, in great depths below
For me to always hold, so I’d never be caught short.

Although I’m no longer his nor he’s mine
I’d always tell his next-in-line — I know it’s cruel
Since he was the first who conquered my mountains,
He’d always be here, in loving memory —
as my very first lesson
of being in love.

— a poem of potpourris.

Based on the movie Split.

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

You’d see him conjure a smile to nothing;
expressionless altogether.
You’d even think he’s a lunatic
for always wanting to clasp the fire.

He refuses to reveal his nature
yet projects unfathomable imaginaries.
He grasps the void so it’d become
himself and no one else’s.

Alas, he surrendered to the voices;
his deeply bruised-self couldn’t go further
but no one caught his frail remnants
and he crashed like waves to the pavement.

He feels without reacting
and reacts without feelings.
He cowers to complete stillness
as he succumbs his turn to
whoever’s next to have the light.

All this time, he seeks only help
for he was hanging by a thread
He was describing his alter egos;
his best versions and something more.

Bless M. Night Shyamalan for this masterpiece honestly.

— a poem of potpourris.

The luxury she could never afford in full.

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

She followed oblivion and came to a halt
For it’s far than what she imagined it would be
It was too quiet for her liking, though she’d been longing for some
But her thoughts avalanched; a swarming crowd.

The void was an entirely different being
with no terminus to reach nor a port of call
She sat right next to nothingness
starless heavens and moonless skies were her companions.

Even in pitch-black, she’s capable of seeing
this tidy emptiness could soon turn messy
by that ruptured faucet, that fragile mind of her’s
capable of admitting its contents anytime

She decided…

— a tanka of potpourris.

Beyond perfection.

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

That crimson lips with
her silk dress flowing about
That hourglass curve;
Crooked as her wondrous smile
I’d bow to her bounds, no doubt.

— a poem of potpourris.

How do I stop this?

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

Is it wrong of me to capture
the notion where perfection gracefully falls
within the crowded limit of time,
where space collide
within the tacit silence of the night?

Is it a sin to express how my existence
recedes slowly like waves flowing back home
every time the great blue misses its caress,
long for its warmth, its cold;
its astronomical disposition? I’m admiring each arched, breaking
waves as my two feet are deeply planted in the sand.

What if I wanted to portray, to sing
the feeling of plummeting down
the ever-vast nebula
and losing my belief that such place exists
behind those ever-loving eyes
that haven’t yet met mine halfway?

Is it so wrong of me
to write
about being in love?

— a poem of potpourris.

I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

I no longer remember the feeling
sleeping soundly next to my father
His warmth, one arm-stretch away
is now unknown; truly foreign.
Creatures that creeps over nighttime —
Those prowling beings, nightmare fuel
With just his hands, they’d surely run
and I’d be nowhere near any harm.
As tedious as it may seem,
I wish my childhood would flow still.

— a poem of potpourris.

I know you wish you can do these to me.

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

I submerge her voice deep in the river
that subtly floats within my never-ending thoughts;
my projection of the past and present, my
frontier of reality and make-believe.

Yes, I’m indeed standing on thin ice
With her beside, I’m at ease
But she grew too painful, too controlling.
If only I know what it is like not to have her near; Will it be milk and honey?

All these thoughts running around
becoming myself and someone else.
I overthink whilst wishing I could grasp
the courage
these ‘without her beside’ imageries had offered
to firmly say out loud

“I’m taking back control,
I refuse to give in!”

— a poem of potpourris.

Taken for granted

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

I love you through all the storm and typhoons
that ever and anon overcome the stillness of your sea

I love you through the brumal winter storm you called affection
and my longing for warmth when you refuse to give any

I love you even when your steaming rage
turned the atmosphere unbreathable

I love you when we’re stuck between the sheets
Not knowing which is which

I love you in many ways I never thought I could
but remember all the same

and yet here you remain where you are;
wasting it all away.

Lita Tiara

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