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Posts Tagged ‘bag’

It won’t be as black

as my umbrella I forgot

the weather I carried around me.

My eye bags were  like cumulus cloud

hanging low, grey and heavy

moving slow hovering thoughts

you won’t know what I am trying

to get over underneath. I expect

 

rain showers drop down its pellets.

And the prevailing wind will keep

nagging my peace of thunderstorms

and lightning, intermittently

piercing montages of grief

into the continuity of my sleep.

 

I had lost track where the wind vane

points a direction towards depression.

I forgot how to regulate the flow

of the emotional flash flood I contain.

And here I am with my lonely forecasts.

The weather disturbance I blame

when the sun won’t smile up

on me, again.

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I hug my bag closer,

seeking comfort of a mother

wondering why,

in the midst of strangers, 

seated in a row,

seeing life as hard

as the wooden table.

 

I dread writing,

clutching each force,

engraving the words 

to a fragile memory wall

of that tiny classroom,

I cannot understand.

 

I wish I could go home

content, isolated from distraction.

And wait for a mother

to teach me the alphabet

unhurriedly without

pressure.

 

Even then, no one

would know

that I can’t speak,

that I can’t read

like others can.

But I see signals

from a mother’s hand.

 

For my language is different.

Since sound and words

were lost the day I was born.

And a mother would

only understand

why.

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