the world has rusted
at the corners
of the perfect sphere;
she no more tries
to make it make sense;
she knows it doesn't.
the rusted corners
of the world
has inflicted
a lot of wounds,
it shows on her wrists;
she opens her pen,
she loads her pistol,
she keeps it
on her table
side by side;
she keeps staring
at her scars
and her poetry,
the pistol can
heal her poetry,
the pen can
heal her scars;
she has no choice,
she chooses both.

nila.

-

the world has rusted
at the corners
of the perfect sphere;
she no more tries
to make it make sense;
she knows it doesn't.
the rusted corners
of the world
has inflicted
a lot of wounds,
it shows on her wrists;
she opens her pen,
she loads her pistol,
she keeps it
on her table
side by side;
she kept staring
at her scars
and the poetry
she had created,
the pistol could
heal her poetry,
the pen could
heal her scars;
she had no choice,
she chose both.

nila.

-

I don't force myself
to create poetry.
I let poetry
embrace me
and caress me
with its metaphors.
At times,
the gentle caress
becomes a little wild
inflicting a thousand scars
all over the body,
which aches beautifully
but each in a different way.
I don't force myself
to write poetry.
I let poetry
kiss me on my lips
and it reminds me
of my thirst
for all the venom
its tongue holds inside.
Once in a while,
I let poetry
stab me in the back,
mind you,
it's not betrayal,
but an honest effort
to save me from
the long dead world.

nila

-

You thought
you had moved on,
that the wounds have healed
and the scars won't hurt,
while in reality,
it's never possible
to completely leave the place
where you've been broken,
there will always be
tiny shattered pieces of you
scattered on the ground,
that will hurt your feet
every time you walk on it,
it might even make you bleed,
the wounds may open up again,
the scars may ache again.
You thought
you had moved on,
but every time
you run back
to poetry
with tears in your eyes
and a void in your heart,
it's proof that
you never really moved on.

nila.

-

It's totally okay
to go back
to that unfinished poetry
which has remained
in your draft
for a long time now,
to search for those words
that didn't fall into place
the last time,
even if again,
you can't find
the perfect words
to end it,
it's totally okay,
let it be
a reminder that
some poems
are just not meant
to end.

nila

-

Sometimes, it's just too much to take.
Your chest feels heavy,
you understand it gets heavier with every heartbreak.
You feel caged inside a life where there seems to be no escape.
You find yourself trapped inside the darkness of your thoughts.
You realise it's too much for anyone around
to understand what is going on inside that messy mind of yours.
You try to put down your emotions into words,
but the paper remains blank
and the heart remains empty,
just empty.

nila

-

How does red symbolise
love, lust,
courage, danger,
agony, aggression,
passion and anger,
all at the same time?!

-

How many truths
can you hide
behind those
forsaken poetries?

-

Sometimes, it's only about
how your broken heart
still holds so much love inside
and doesn't spill a drop of hatred.

-

flowers make me smile,
not sure if happy,
but they make me smile.
one day, when i die
i want my grave
full of flowers,
not bouquets,
but plants and trees,
that way i wither and die everyday,
only to bloom more beautifully
the next day.
i don't want them to be vibrant,
trust me,
a shade of white will definitely do.
if it's too much maintenance,
at least bring some paper flowers
and scatter them all over,
maybe i can collect them
and weave them into poetry
everytime i miss you.

-