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They are hysterical and exaggerated patterns drawn onto the thin fabric of my floral curtains. But they do not bloom in a room full of mysteries and miseries. Rather they die as if no roots of birth. And no traces of calm sorcery.
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Sometimes I let them decay under my bed and resurrect them in ways I don't think I can. But I have long disobeyed the nature of power that even these curse-made spells appear as if potions of love. Mostly they are the wreckage of mended paradigms from a slaughtered letter. Like a pour of a burning ink in my flesh, dark and crimson.
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When awake, oftentimes they are silent and never spoken but they speak to me in their mother tongue. As if they weren't misunderstood, as if they made sense at all. As if I was once a hopeful soul without destruction befalling after me. Because after all, behind my havoc is a tiny piece of my wondrous desire.
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In some foreign nights, they're bleak and saturnine like no moon should ever light them up. And there are seasons where my weaved nightmares sulk in the corners of an old paper and are drenched with nothingness alone. But now, the celestials despised my verses for they speak in forbidden tales. They became a scorching vein that no amount of magic could make believable.
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They will always be unfinished and forlorn in several syllables like they weren't meant to arrive at where they were supposed to go. I knew how real they were and too natural that they would be as terrible as I am.
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They were made with infuriating eyes and unfurled anger none of you saw with bare minds even if they were not hidden. I wrote and plucked them to life as if I'm not the poet that I am but only scarred. Ruined to extent of my weak mind.
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Most importantly, they are unknown like roots vined underneath me. Mayhap a bypass to forgotten or bruises to memorabilia. And carved in prosaic woods left to fade like dust and grow as if never stabbed. They're magic but not magical to frail hands for they bear hurricanes. And none will puzzle their right pieces but the poet that destroyed them only to rewrite their truth again.
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Strange they're alive. They exist even without a dream. They were found from the void of my imperfect phantasm. Their uncommon empty-handed magic will seem normal to you—that it'd turn you so unaware and nonsensical more than I ever was. And I am, in no way, bothered to be felt by humans. More so exist in a more cruel reality than what my torn hands do.
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@rks.wuhdrelis
A warrior of liberty. With ink stains on her mind and soul. Maayong adlaw! This page contains the information you might want to know about the author. She goes by the name Arques and is under the username
Arques is an 18-year-old girl, on a mission to her dream college and a writer wannabe is her reputation. There's a thin line between writing and music that enthralls her mind to scribble every time she has a chance to. To write is to dream and to dream is to be free. Except for nightmares, she believes so. She fancies writing prose poetries that is usually about childhood, life, love, tragedy, something peculiar, or even unnamed emotions. Stay tuned!
