Hovering around the brightest flowers

Fighting against the hollow winds

I welcome you, the mighty bumblebees.

Though they may seem terrifying,

They always do their best for the people they love.

While the others target brightly colored and blooming flowers in the meadow,

A very timid and endearing little bumblebee targets the bud that’s been separated from the rest.

She waits for this bud to bloom, no matter their surrounding conditions.

Love is seeing each other as we grow.

Love is when one’s happiness is more important than one's own.

Love is realizing that, despite it all, you’ll find the light in the dark.

Together.

As time flew, she taught the flower that if being soft and kind was a weakness, it would never grow.

And the flower taught the mini-bumblebee that the key to freedom is to let go.

Because even the things we love could easily harm us with no hesitation.

As the flower bloomed,

And as the mini-bumblebee grew,

They’ve become inseparable.

They’ve become stronger than ever.

Together.

Sometimes, I wonder

Even though there was an endless garden right in front of the mini-bumblebee,

Why did she choose the vulnerable bud in a crowd of blooming flowers?

As I sat on the swings, I took a moment to appreciate the scenery that I’d been gifted with. The arrogant waves crashed onto the shore, erasing one’s footprints from the sand where memories had been embedded. The ocean teemed with fragments of emptiness, but many failed to see how expressive and exhaustive it can be at the same time. The place around me felt so full, but somehow I felt so empty. So hopeless. Like a memory that can’t be recalled. The place around me lit up, and I watched how the shadows were chasing one another while being ignored at the same time. If there’s one thing that I’ve learned by just being here, it's that the pain I feel is not my heart crying; it's all the emptiness that I’ve felt for such a long time, wanting to be free.

Every day, I wish to go back home. Home is a place where our childhood memories feel safe and loved. Home is a feeling. And for the first time in years, I finally felt it. I felt all my evocative memories drown me in my own abyss. I looked around once more, watching the children as they created their childhoods and reminiscing about the times I'd had here while creating mine. Wanting to go back in time to recapture those moments. Childhood is the one story that stands out in every soul. Some may have had a memorable childhood. Some may have had trauma tightly wrapped around their childhood that’s never to be mentioned again. And then there are some who have not graduated from their childhood yet.

I got up on my feet and headed towards where my home had always been. Where the land meets the sea, I find fragments of the younger me.

Mirror, mirror on the wall,

What do you see when you fall?

Do you see miracles?

Do you find yourself unbelievable?

Or do you just have the word ‘failure’ pierce through?

Trust me when I say, “I feel you”

’Cause I came from feeling miserable to slowly finding myself new

What do you see in a mirror?

Someone who has gone through the thought of seeing themselves as ‘imperfect’?

Someone who has been patiently writing their story chapter after chapter?

Someone who has and always will be that powerful person they are seeing right now?

Regardless of where your reflection is seen or from what perspective it seems to be on,

Whether it is through a window or someone's eyes,

Everyone’s reflection drags expectations and self-love down the crevasse of torture

Everyone’s reflection shares an untold story

Should it remain that way?

Yes.

Yes, it should.

Walking in a meadow of roses

Hand-in-hand with you

With my head on your shoulder,

Together, we continued to walk in silence

As we walked, I noticed your eyes and

how they draw me in

but I was afraid that one day, they'd slowly let me go

So I looked away, watching the sun chasing after the moon instead.

As we walked, rows of roses passed us,

brushing their petals gently across our skins

Some bloomed

While others lied withered and perished away

As we walked, I saw a precious, quiescent daisy in the field of mediocre roses

I let go of your hand and plucked the daisy from the crowd

I was afraid that one day the daisy would slowly wither away like the rest of the roses, so I kept it with me

The longer I looked at it, the more the daisy reminded me of you

I kept it even closer to my heart, knowing that it reminded me of someone special

Someone Lucent and Elysian.

I stopped us and gently placed the daisy behind your ear

It was worth it just to see you smile.

Oh,

that smile.

So irenic and tranquil

You might wonder,

Why did I pick the daisy in a field of roses?

And why did I give it to you?

But that's for you to find out

my love,

Walking in a meadow of roses

the place where I saw you last

I remember it as if it was yesterday

I am glad that I have cherished that moment

That memory

Alas.

(A poem written for someone extraordinary)

There was once a butterfly,

A misunderstood butterfly

who still hides under her cocoon

Away from the others

Alone.

But she was never lonely

there is a difference between being lonely and alone.

Many moons ago, she filled in every sorrowful space in every flower, but not all flowers were her taste

Some found this butterfly sweet and innocent

Some found this butterfly intimidating too

And of course, others will find something that many don’t see in her

It's a secret, though

This butterfly can be so amiable yet fierce, which attracts many, but some may run away.

She doesn’t make her past the definition of herself

However, other butterflies around her, do

She is the butterfly that shares the heavy truth which may hurt one

She knows that speaking the truth can scar one and make another think twice,

But she doesn't know, that there is a whole other world out there

waiting for her

However, that doesn't stop her from spreading love,

as long as one becomes a beautiful butterfly like herself, she’s not afraid

that's her unidentified problem though

The butterfly who has suffered the most

The butterfly who has helped many but ends up losing her self-respect

And the butterfly who grows from experience,

Those special butterflies will have the most dazzling pair of wings.

And she,

Well, she is one of those special butterflies.

Perhaps even more special than the others.

I hope she is doing well, wherever she is.

I watched as the sweet shimmer of moonlight poured through the canopy of the forest, enlightening my vision. For the first time, I’m seeing the woeful side of nature. I wanted to take a night stroll, thinking about what makes one love. I realized how vulnerable and secure the heart of the forest can be. But nature can manipulate you into feeling welcomed into another world. Welcomed to a world of tranquility. Little do many know that it can be the one to scare the shadows of the dark, making them run back home.

Home.

Many define it as a place where you are secure and safe, but they are wrong. You can feel safe anywhere, but you can never call it your home. A home is not where you are from, it is where you belong. Where you are wanted.

Even though I became a threat to nature, curiosity took control and I took one step deeper into the heart of the forest. The trees created a comforting and amicable shed, giving off a sense of security and seclusion. They stood tall, arrogant and unyielding, as if they were soldiers protecting their land. They seem far more experienced than I am. They’ve seen the trauma that many run from and yet they still grow. But their branches shot up, as if warning me to go back. The land of evergreen brings forward the perfect epitome of life. Whatever one may do, consequences will be faced.

Peculiarity got me to a place. A place where laughter and happiness once lived. A place where one can feel loved. A place where one can be buried with agonized trauma. A place where secrets hide behind one's shadow of both the living and the dead. A place called home.

A house.

A derelict house.

I was astonished by the way nature had tried to cover it up. The rhythmic vines danced and twirled around to the melody of the howling wind like the ballerinas in a music box.I looked around the perished house. The ambience was manipulatively quiet and my mind teemed with lacerating memories. Everything about the house felt so familiar. The defective door cried for help. The window that breaks when the moonlight enters lies there, broken. Children's laughter is embedded in the ground where the flowers bloom. My heart lies somewhere in this house. I felt it calling to me, so I entered, leaving the door open for the shadows to escape freely.

As my eyes scanned the place, I stopped dead as I saw a picture frame lying lacerated and broken apart on the ground. A picture of a happy family.

My happy family.

My tears spoke up for me. I tried to reminisce about feeling loved but instead, remembering the forgotten merry moments and memories teemed in my mind. Behind every family portrait, lies secrets that want to be forgotten but the present depends on one’s past.

My past.

Secrets lie in this house. I’m just one step closer to the truth. To the traumatizing past.

But is it worth opening a door that I’ve closed?

Matthew wandered around the room, taking every step with skepticism, devouring him, leaving what he had left to the ravenous society. He tried to have a moment of flashbacks of what happened, but reminiscing about the tragedy was all he could do. Every happy moment that he faces vanishes away from him, never to be mentioned or remembered by Matthew or anyone again. But despite everything, the ambience of the room felt very familiar and amicable. It was as if Matthew was destined to run away from the amicable feeling the entire time. Something about the things he had faced so far didn’t seem real yet they felt so familiar. Something about him doesn’t feel right. Before his thoughts dragged him away, he noticed a letter addressed to him on a mediocre table. He felt his own shadow running away as he picked up the letter and opened it.

Dear Matthew,

Whatever you do, please do not do the following as every action of yours will lead you one step closer to the purgatory that you’ve spent your whole life running away from.

DO NOT open the door

DO NOT invite Jack into your home

DO NOT take the drink from him

DO NOT wake up

DO NOT meet the King and Queen

DO NOT enter a bedroom that has your name on it

DO NOT go back.

I do hope it's not too late.

Yours truly,

Matthew

He felt his heart going cold. He doesn’t remember writing a letter to himself. And he has done everything he told himself not todo. Is this a trap? Or is it a warning? If he didn’t write that letter, then who did? From what Matthew gained after diving into a crevasse of valued and sequestered memories, Jack gave him a drink and somehow he ended up here, in this palace and in this room. All alone. He then remembered what Jack had said before he left; “you are not to leave this room.”

Matthew also remembered the agony yet roguish in Jack’s eyes before he left. With curiosity taking behold of him, he took one risky step forward towards the door. Knowing that it wouldn’t make a difference even if his soul perished away from the world. Knowing that he would regret it.

He opened the door.

But it wasn’t the same expensive corridor he walked in with Jack before. It seemed to be a room full of light but the vacant darkness could still be seen by those who lived in it. Despite the scintillating walls being hopeless and colorless, the truth lies hidden in the shadows of the light. Matthew scrutinized his surroundings and felt the ambience of luxury vanish away. He turned around and realized the door he had just opened had disappeared. That’s when it hit Matthew that he was trapped in a void.

Agitation seemed to choke Matthew as he looked around the tortuous place for a way out. Nothing. His footsteps seemed to be more vociferous than his own thoughts. He continued walking, desperate for answers. Desperate to live a life where he doesn’t have to keep running. Desperate to breathe for the first time. Matthew noticed something from far. As he took a few steps closer, his eyes teemed with sympathy. It was a guy in a medical bed labeled patient no. 397. It seemed as if he couldn’t hear or see Matthew, so he took another step closer. Matthew noticed that the guy was dying right in front of him. Gasping for air, begging for another chance. Another life. The Holter monitor beside the guy started beeping frantically, indicating that his very own heart was betraying him. Matthew cried for help, but his voice just echoed, running away and further into the abyss he was currently in. To have a voice is to change another's future.

After analyzing every detail ever so carefully, for the first time Matthew felt lost and terrified. That person in the medical bed is him. That person who’s heart failed is him. That guy is him.

Tears flooded his vulnerable eyes. He screamed, he yelled, but his voice was silenced. Is this Matthews’ past or his future? Is this real? Is Matthew real?

‘DO NOT enter a room that has your name on it’, said the letter.

Now, Matthew knows why.

I bring you a flower, but it ends up dying.

Petals fading away and you end up lying

I hate myself for coming back to you everytime

I hate that you are always right

You find the light in my eyes

I just want to be free but I want to do it with you by my side

Goodbye.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I crumpled the paper. It can be hard for one to fathom their emotions. It can be hard to find happiness when you’ve been buried alive with melancholia. I should understand myself better than others. Even in the vulnerable darkness, one can still find their way. Knowing that, I looked outside and searched for comfort amongst the field of dandelions.

The vociferous silence on the train made everything better. I plugged in my earphones and played some music to alleviate the ineffable agony that my heart burns with. As another song played, I began to wonder, how do they make insecurities sound good? As the train rumbled away, I wondered how something could be so loud yet comforting. I wondered how my voice throttles my throat everytime I try to open my mouth. To be heard is to have a voice, loud enough to break the crowd. But what if there isn’t one?

Before my thoughts could further drag me away, a charming boy sat arrogantly across from me. His amber hair, soft and lush, glistened under the golden hour. His lips reminded me of those roses in the meadow of my dreams. His amiable eyes told a story that wanted to remain untold. Our eyes met and I caught myself sinking deep into them.

“Is there something wrong? Did realism swallow you up too?”

I gave him a shallow smile but my eyes teemed with broken pieces of loved-love fragments. He looked at me with concern as he leaned forward and wiped the tear that scintillated from my cheeks.

“It's alright if you don’t want to talk about it. Despite all our despair and woefulness, the sun always returns.”

I want to talk about it. I want to scream. But I just can’t. I just looked outside where the poetic clouds drifted past us. They created nebulous shapes to express their emotions that later languished away but slowly turned into something new. The same cloud. A new emotion. The train continued rumbling away. I was analyzing the beautiful scenery that Mother Nature had created when a hand was holding mine ever so benevolently.

“Listen, our biggest fears can be turned into the prettiest nightmares. Under the meadow of merriment lies the dead. There’s a rainbow that leads to not a pot full of gold but a pot flooded with unwanted feelings that want to be wanted. Whatever it is, this is not the beginning.”

Goosebumps colonized over my body. I felt a perished shadow umbrage over me. I screamed but not a sound came out. I closed my eyes but the ambience got stronger and angrier. The charming boy that I admired before disappeared and turned into my favored nightmare. It was my own vacant emotions disguised to manipulate me. To make me walk on the wrong, feared path.

Why is it that every time hope gets ruined by despair?

Why is this happening to me?

Or was it I who chose this to happen?

This is how my perturbation takes over me.

Running seems to be one’s way to escape from their calamitous purgatory. To escape from their destined destiny. One can walk or run but will their footsteps of dreaded agony be remembered amongst the living? We can run but how far can that take us?

The bashful trees whispered violently under one’s breath in the howls of the winds, never failing to show that they grew from the mediocre memorable mistakes of others. Of both the living and the dead. The shadows of the ones who once lived, devoured the night, burying the exuberance of the people alive. Each gravestone brings back the memories that one’s mind teems with. But the memories that want to be remembered lie buried away. Never to be mentioned again.

Flowers placed ever so delicately remind one how memorable they are and can be. But what's the point if the flower dies too? The dirt that one is buried with, is filled with footprints of generations from many moons ago. As the lachrymose clouds hang low, they invade the perished reality that the living are forced to see and indulge.

The ambience of the dead is rather peaceful but the feeling of despair still remains. The gates are closed but they break free after a long time, with no other tragedy destined to them. The world beneath us can be ineffably dangerous and damaging. It can be a place where one's nightmares are hidden in one's dreams, watching over like a predator out in the wild. Or where a dream becomes our most feared nightmare. A place where one's heavy secret is buried, hidden away from reality. Hoping that it would stay that way for centuries to come.

The cemetery, a place where you die once but continue living.

The ghost in the attic

Wonders around to find that memory

That made him feel alive again

Gold between brown,

rust and red leaves

fell on to the ground

because they felt that they had no purpose left to serve

tonight is the night

when witches fly above the clouds and drop poison upon the death,

Cackling away while their loved ones lies perished and lost from reality

tonight is the night

when gnomes and trolls danced in their underground pits waiting for the night endeavor their souls

tonight is the night

when ghosts fly high and scream,

"It's halloween!"