Chiku Diaries

 They call me God's strongest soldier. Perhaps because no prayer returns Only silence, cold and older. Each grief arrives, another stone, Until its weight becomes my own; My ribs forget what light has known. Still I stand. Not out of courage. Not out of pride. I begged for spring, You sent the tide. I asked for dawn, You dimmed the sky. Yet here I am, too worn to fly. For even ruin, bruised and small, Has simply never learned to fall.

 The devil laughed when I lit a burning candle to bargain with the night. Now the trees whistle through the hollow arch where my soul took flight. Walk over my bones they creak, they moan, like prayers carved in stone. Perhaps you'll hear the ghost I became, still whispering your name, for I loved too much, and was loved too late.

 When the worms inherit my grave, All they taste is the bitterness I became. They'll find my bones worn thin with sorrow, And the grief I taught myself to swallow. When they reach the chambers of my heart, They'll find the echoes torn apart. A memory so fleeting it forgot its name, Yet lingered in my marrow all the same.

 To the guy whom I met at the hospital, I know it's a weird place to meet. I saw you crying and wanted to hug you, but our families were there, hahaha. Though the point wasn't really the hug it was to comfort you before I start crying too. I'm sorry if I yapped a little too much, maybe overshared a lot. And thank you for listening to my yap, even if you didn't understand a word. To the guy I met at the hospital  I know it's a weird place to meet  People dream of meet-cutes sweet and neat, with flowers, music, and hearts that beat. Ours had hospital walls and beeping machines, not quite the stuff of movie scenes. But funny enough, through all that blue, the one thing perfect there was you.

 I sometimes pretend candies are for kids,  But always wish to have some.  Always show thrillers are my type, But I know how much I fear blood. And never fail to judge childish fantasies, But I keep a secret to fly and soar high. To have wings woven of my dreams , As I touch the clouds and rise, Wings of purple feathers of glitters , Wings wide and warm is what I thrive for. Oh! but I lied that I never flew, I did with Wings of torment and woe ,  Tangled in the mess of my miseries and sorrow, Abandoning my body, deserting my home,  With the Wings I disgust the most ,  Happily, I fly in the sky above.

 An artist once painted a monochrome, Strokes of black, a pinch of white. An extravagant masterpiece, Yet fools of the kingdom scoffed, Their blinded eyes unable to grasp its meaning. They mocked the stillness, Dull and empty what they belived.  The king summoned the artist, Declared the work useless, And ordered him to flee. “Oh, My dear majesty,” the artist said, As the court rose in murmurs, “What men aspire their lives to be Is what they see before them. They call it a monotonous splash of grey, Yet forget that grey is what they live. They accept the colorless days, But rage when they see them reflected. We are told to celebrate the present, Not mourn its dullness. Yet when truth stands bare, It becomes unbearable.” The king stood silent. He saw not the painting, But the lives behind it. Those who had long abandoned color Declared it the finest work the kingdom had known. The artist stayed. And the monochrome remained,

First things first, a big sorry to everyone I hurt last year. I genuinely hope this year I can make more people smile. That said, I’ve never fully understood the idea of a “new beginning” just because it’s a new year. Isn’t every new sunrise a new beginning? If so, why don’t we celebrate that instead? They say the present is called a present because it’s a gift. Something we’re meant to live and enjoy. Yet by January 2nd, life goes back to the same routine. Nothing really changes. We just change the last two digits while writing the date. People carry so much stress and worry, yet still follow silly Instagram trends like eating grapes at midnight , hoping it’ll magically bring them love. Aren’t humans a little funny sometimes? (Yes, I did it too. And yes, I laugh at myself.) My mom always says how you behave on the first day of the year decides how the rest of it will go. That makes me wonder: if we can celebrate and smile so freely on one day, why don’t we try to keep that smile ...

 What’s the place where you can’t sleep? You can’t cry, you can’t weep. You can’t smile, you can’t dream And being appreciated? Forget it. Who are these people, veiled in lies, Acting like they care, But only about themselves inside? No, it’s not a room Filled with faces unknown. The red eyes belong to our dearly “own,” Ready to drown you in their screams, Ready to cage you in their dreams.

  Words like knives on her nape Haunt her days, shatter her nights. A sense of void Within her gut Wrenches her soul Tangled and tight. Hundreds of hands Offered for handshakes, None that open their arms. Taking the words, She weaves a skirt, Adorns it with red. Too faint to paint her wrists, She clings to the skirt And the ache it brings. With every cut, from the skirt Her smile grows wide Walking into the roads Bleeding and quiet