Summer

Sitting there, looking beautiful - she’s still

The sun warms her roots and strengthens her color

The air is thick - reapply the makeup, look pretty, sit and tan

obey

Fall

Slowly, she degrades - her outer layer is gone

Left is only the shrumpled up inside of her - torn and ruined by the fakeness she was forced to be

The inside was always what mattered, she knew that

Her freedom had been riped from her, leaving only one choice to follow

Winter

Stomped, crumpled, pressed, choked

She withers down to nothing

A blanket drowns her cries

Once she stops fighting, she realizes the blanket is no danger, but a friend who warms, someone to cherish

Someone who will not bind her with chains

Spring

As the blanket leaves, she’s gone

A delicate girl, swept with the wind

Is that so?

Then what is that rosebud growing from the soil?

A soul renergizing in her peak, coming back for the better

No, she’s not fragile like a flower, but fragile like a bomb

And as she rises to be who is truly within

One can see if you look closer - a phoenix rising from her ashes

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“She was not fragile like a flower, she was fragile like a bomb.” - Frida Kahlo

I wish nothing but the best for my friends

And yet I can’t do the same for myself

I’ve learnt to put them on a pedestal

And me at their feet to serve them

Now I’m trying to unlearn the things

I’ve been forced to absorb

I’m getting rid of the pedestals

And standing up

So that we may be equals together

We stand together

We fall together

We help each other up

Let’s grow together

stars in his eyes

he doesnt know

that every night

i pray that they shine

for me

stars in his eyes

they twinkle so bright

that even the moon

is jealous that she

doesnt shed that

kind of light

"there's stars in your eyes"

he tells me and when

we make eye contact

supernovas take place

and i can feel it through

out my body

- so this is love?

I’m not sure you like me

and that’s ok

fine line between love & hate, see?

It’s rarely any other way.

You admire my spirit

how it sparks and shines

then secretly covet,

jealousy blinds.

Your eyes skim my body

i know what you need

chemistry is never our problem,

in truth it's your greed.

Driven by ego

you punish & shame

hurling insults like snowballs,

seeking others to blame.

There once was a time

i’d make efforts to conceal

my soul in its prime,

so you could feel.

Those days have passed

i’ve uncovered the truth

free at last,

toll paid with my youth.

I’m not sure you like me

and that’s ok

truth is,

I never needed you anyway.

Message delivered

I wait patiently for your answer

after 2 days I think you might be busy

nothing

after 2 weeks I realize you might’ve forgotten me

nothing

after 2 months I realize you don’t care

nothing

I sit still wondering

when will you respond?

what did I do wrong?

then

ping

It seems you need someone to help you

and you keep asking

until I relent

not anymore

I’ve got to admit

I have no clue what went wrong

what did I do?

I am not perfect

I have flaws

I am my perfect self

I’m that huge bookworm

I’m that girl who loves to solve the extra math problems

I’m that person who is only organized when it comes to online files

I’m that person who loves to play cheesy disney songs on the piano

I’m that person who adores to watch movies based on books

and if that’s not enough for you

then you don’t deserve me as I am

so I hear it again

ping

and I press ignore

deciding to go and read on my couch, cuddling with my next favorite read, and a warm cup of Caramel Apple Cider.

Tomorrow,

I’m going to go and treat myself to a big Molly Moon’s sundae

and I’ll find someone

who

actually

cares

When I came across this particular challenge it took me a while when searching in the bowels of my brain for, ‘a most joyful memory.’ I have a plentiful of memories that is joyful. But a most joyful one? No, I can’t seem to pick one out as the happiest I’ve ever been. Let me admit I have used drugs and drank a lot, let me also admit that maybe more than half of my happy times in life are when I was under the influence. I now find myself asking, am I an unhappy person, often looking to drugs and alcohol for happiness? I know for sure that I am not an angry one, bitter or depressed, but still this one writing challenge I guess inadvertently has challenged me to find a most joyful memory instead of having the best writing of my most joyful memory.

I’m ok this hasn’t shaken me off balance, I’m just reminded of the power of writing, how it can get one thinking deep. It’s why I have trouble writing a horror piece or one of lust and sex! With me, I almost always think things through in such great depth and detail when putting pen to paper it's like putting myself right in it, live and in-person.

Writing sure is mystical I find, and for me, it has a mystique about it. I never really did write as much as I should but since joining Prose I have been writing more and it feels like boarding the Cyclone at Coney Island! I’m having fun here and it might be a while before I get off this coaster.

The rhythm it has-

a steady drumming,

soft not too loud;

the smell it gives off,

particularly in the city.

The smell of wet concrete sidewalks and wet asphalt streets;

The sound that’s made when cars move over the rain falling on the streets,

the noticeable change in the everyday sounds of the city.

It’s not as noisy since there are fewer people out and about due to the rain-

those that might still be out there probably running errands can be more clearly heard,

their conversations with friends or on the phone.

The pitter-patter of their feet on the rain-soaked sidewalk and streets,

the giggles of folks jumping over puddles that sit and grow up against the curbs and elsewhere.

It all gives a comfy feeling when one listens and or hears the sounds of rain in the city entering apartments or urban houses.

One can also smell the wet soil and leaves that can be found in a city too

especially when living near a big Gotham park.

The big city, quieter and not so much in a hurry anymore

not so angry and angst since the rains came.

It’s like it has taken a day off in the middle of the week

A rainy day in the city...

It can rain today and yes we love the sun but here in the city,

we also love a good soaking to wash away the stress and put a calm into the hurried.

It's pretty seeing the street lights and car headlights shining off the rainwater fallen on the black street,

the cars are shiny wet.

There’s a glimmering that's layered on top of all things, and folks, here in the downtown area, and uptown,

down the avenues and major roads that lead out-of-town.

Let's not forget the steady sound of rainwater falling into the sewers, through the sewer grates.

A sound that easily enters an apartment with their window not far above the corner of their block.

Rainy days in the city is actually pretty you know,

It has a character all its own, and I love it.

New York City is where I’m from,

lets go Yankees, lets go Jets and Knicks.

And let me not forget my umbrella when going to the bank

on my way to the subway or hailing a cab.

I hear the brring noise of the heater, the faint ticking of my alarm clock and the clattering of glass dishes downstairs. There’s some mild traffic outside what with the revving of the motorcycles’ engines and a few blaring horns but its a relatively quiet day. I can hear a single bird twittering and a siren blaring from one of the impatient thug cars.

Its evening now. Cars are honking and drums are beating. Loud festive music is playing on speakers and people are hooting. Actually, there's a wedding taking place in the house right opposite mine. I snuggle back into my blanket and watch the scene from afar. Its cold, very cold. I'm tempted to turn the heater back on again but I can't muster up the courage to get out of my warm blanket.

Suddenly my screen lights up and my phone buzzes. Its my dad, messaging me from Lahore. I switch it back off. I don't want to talk.

It’s 9:54 in the morning. Nothing stirs, neither in the house nor out. Yet, if I listen close enough there is a ticking noise.

No clockwork device adorns the walls or shelves; all our timepieces are electronic. But still the rhythmic da-dun, da-dun persists.

Could it be the pulse in my ears? I am no stranger to that thrum-thrumming beat, which is why I know my heartbeat is not the sound I now hear.

Da-dun, da-dun.

The noise is regular, sharp. It signifies the counting down of time, of that I am sure. It repeats as steadily as a pendulum swings, each arc carving the future into minute slivers of the present. The past is nothing more than millions of these sliced moments, stored in the mind to be rejoiced, feared or (worse?) forgotten.

But this lyrical waxing does not bring me closer to an answer - what is that sound?

Da-dun, da-dun.

Now I am imagining a grandfather clock, it’s long pendulum an axe attacking time. I think I may have read of such a thing an a Pratchett novel, possibly Mort. It seems a fitting timepiece for the abode of Death.

Da-dun, da-dun.

It that what I can hear? My very own clock in Death’s house, ticking away the seconds of my life?

As frightful as that thought may be, I suppose I should be thankful that I can hear it. While ever the clock ticks, my life continues. A far scarier prospect would be the silencing of that clock, for it could only signify one thing.

Da-dun, da-dun.

Da-dun, da-

stop wishing

to be older

because i can tell you

that once you hit your teen years

you wish to be

young again.

you go through hell

and maybe you even

enjoy it a little bit.

Dear Younger Me,

stay right where you are,

live in the present

because future holds

family rivalries,

questions about yourself

and those around you.

your grandfather who used to toss quarters on the floor

and say that he had holes in his pockets

is homophobic

and won't accept you for who you are,

so while he dies of COVID a few states away,

you don't know what to feel.

you see the ugly side of your family

and the ugly side of kids

and the ugly side of

yourself.

when you get older,

everything seems ugly,

and you wish you could go back to

when you were younger

and everything seemed

beautiful.

Dear Younger Me,

stay away from

the golden boy

because his gold

is pyrite

and even though he glitters

he is worthless.

Dear Younger Me,

quit wishing to be older

and enjoy your youth

before it all gets

taken away from you.

Dear Younger Me,

rely on reality,

no matter how bad it seems,

because fantasy will only tear you to shreds

as you question who you are.

Dear Younger Me,

stay away from toxic friends,

they taint you forever,

and years later, you haven't shaken

them.

Dear Younger Me,

don't worry so much about your grades,

they go to shit anyway.

Dear Younger Me,

keep writing,

because it's the only thing that keeps you living.

Dear Younger Me,

don't run away from home,

you don't know how good you've got it.

Eventually, you'll learn that

your family is beautiful and kind

and you'll learn how lucky you are.

Dear Younger Me,

just remember

that it's okay to forget

and that it's okay to remember.

To my past self,

I can't change my past.

It's done.

If I could, I would,

but sometimes,

I don't think it will matter

if you get this letter or not,

because in our weakness,

when we are stuck in the past,

we forget the future.

Dear Younger Me,

keep writing.

Keep writing.

Keep on writing and writing

because if you stop,

you'll lose the last

gift

you have left.

Dear Younger Me,

stop trying to get older

because when you get older,

you start to know things

that you'd rather stay hidden.

And speaking of hiding places,

don't bother hiding

those scraps of metal you find,

and don't bother wearing long sleeves,

because they'll find it anyway

so you might as well

own it.

You might not know what I mean by that yet,

but you will,

because you can't change the past,

even with a warning

from the future.