Charlz dela Cruz

Her soul
spills
out of her body
and she does not know it

she does not know
how her eyes
light up
like looming mountains
touching
the brightest stars

and that poets
only write
what the wind
whispers
to her hair.

Days were made of flowers stars made of dreams
until the world happened
and what was once full of life
is now cold and silent as the grave.

He hated the world So much That he hated himself He despised the world So much That he became the world…
I
He was not born to be a writer His soul was simply broken into pieces, like the alphabets
And so he writes hoping that he might know who he was or who he is that as he puts back the pieces of his soul he might form a word or a name to call himself
It is true that one may find wisdom when one is lost but it is also true  that one  can be lost forever
He writes  under the light  of the full moon, re-creating beauty with a quill, parchment, and tears while she is asleep, dreaming the wildest dreams perhaps of some far-away kingdom catching butterflies and the whole world sleeps with her
Indeed, he was not born to be a writer He was only broken into one.