When I first went on stage I blanked out and felt my knees shaking. I was pretty sure I would make a fool out of myself and I definitely did. Everything was just so bad at that moment. My knees wobbly, my voice shaky, palms were profusely sweating and I could hear how weird my voice sounded. I just wanted to run off that stage. Even though only about 20 people were in that auditorium, I felt like I was being judged and under the microscope by infinite number of eyes. It was beyond horrendous. When everything was going bad, I also noticed a faint feeling of belonging (which at that time I mistook it as nausea). The more I pushed myself to be in the spot light the more I loved the feeling of everyone listening to what I had to say. I realised when I held the microphone, I had the power. The power to say what I want, to show people who I truly am. This estatic feeling overpowered the fear of being ridiculed or mocked. I've worked 6 years on m...
I had a daughter once, her name was Hope. Oh, you should've seen how my heart leaped in joy when I held her in my arms. Every fiber in me was dedicated to making her safe and showering her with all the love I could give. I cradled her in my arms. Oh, you should've seen how her tiny fingers were my reason to live. She was my love. My own. I spent nights stroking her hair and showing her off to the moon as its competitor. I held her close to me always. Blocking and pushing away the things that might prick her baby skin. Oh, I wish I could buy love in the supermarket, buy it for her and gift wrap it with care and dreams and give every stock they have, to my precious. And I would happily spend years paying it off with nothing but her happiness in return. Oh, i dreamt I held my baby Hope, in my hands singing to her on rainy nights till my coffee got cold and I dozed off, my baby Hope sound asleep in my arms. But one day I had a horrific dream, I dreamt that my hope was gone. I sea...
Your words were a permanent impression in my mind. Even though my fingers smudge the ends of every word written with fresh ink all over me, in attempts to touch it - a fool's attempt to think that those words were as tangible as you. But yet the smudged letters were readable. Soon enough the words felt more tangible in fact it was the only tangible thing as the writer ceased to exist, leaving only shattered dust and scrap in my memory. But the words remain. Smudged and faded yet the words remain. And now I am in search of a new writer whose application would fill this empty seat and remain there to write the same poem on my mind over and over again. Written : Dec 20, 2016
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