we’re not meant to stand still

do you know how long we’ve been here?
our souls are covered with dust
hearts unable to see rust
all over bones

if not for dawn taking turns with dusk
for earth traipsing around sun
we’d be stuck in the past

comfort attached to being unchanged
useless currency
you can’t even purchase memories
with same old promises

I emptied my backpack
making room for new pebbles
I’ll pick up along the way

may we soon overgrow this stagnant state
rendering us safe
but more deadened
by the day

~~~

Listen here.

For #WhisperingNeds 141, ‘stasis/aspic/amber/pickles/preserve/sameness’.

© annie scribes 2019
all rights reserved

 

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wickedness within

~~~

Written for gratitude note and #WhisperingNeds 139, ‘tips’.

Audio here.

© annie scribes 2018
all rights reserved

bitten

You’ll know when you’ve been bitten. You’re left with a sting, an itch. The uncomfortable sensation demanding a scratch, a touch. Like curiosity, pulling for more. More trips. More kisses. More chances to hear more promises.

Some bites turn you into an addict, pushing you down on your knees, making you crawl, wanting more of their poisonous elements. They’re spread like a virus, numbing, paralyzing. You’re left kneeling, helplessly full of hope, anticipating another bite.

You’ll know when you’ve been bitten.

You’ll just know.

~~~

For #WhisperingNeds 138, ‘bugs’.

© annie scribes 2018
all rights reserved

closed exhibitions

To all of us, pieces of art.

They may not appreciate why we’re here and what we create. We’re not our art pieces, but they are us; because they’re ours, born out of pain, out of yearning, out of happiness.

In movement, and in stillness, we live. In chaos, and in silence, we love. We find liberation in words, in dances, in sculptures, in music. We search for peace in emptiness, just because they say void is a bad thing, and we want to prove them wrong—by god, do we ever want to prove them wrong.

We are pieces of art, and if they cannot see that, screw them. We are pieces of art, in an unknown gallery on an unnamed street—and we’ll continue to create and become the extremes, even if we’re the only ones who understand.

~~~

For #WhisperingNeds 137, ‘appreciate, disagree, liberate’.

© annie scribes 2018
all rights reserved

when I grow up

when I grow up I want to become
something meaningful for someone

cherished when present
missed in my absence

like wind
leaving yellowing leaves still and aching
when it’s not around

like shadows at sundown
awaited by light cast on walls
hoping to have the last dance

like moonbeam
chased by river’s ripples
a beacon to guide their way to the sea

for now I am working
to become something
meaningful for me

~~~

For WhisperingNeds 135, ‘something to be’.

© annie scribes 2018
all rights reserved

who told us to live in a box

a heart stands outside the margin
told never to cross the line
to wait until the story has been framed
neatly wrapped in a reason
(or an excuse)
why love couldn’t get here faster:
because life gets in the way

who drew boundaries
why did they think hearts
could live in a box
without being stabbed
by the sharp edges

~~~

For #WhisperingNeds 133, ‘boundary, margin, edgy, or frame’.

© annie scribes 2018
all rights reserved

why we ache

had we not been introduced
to something better
would we have wanted more?

had we not seen colors
beyond black and white boxes
would we have asked
for rainbows?

an ache — I wonder
if it’s man-made
self-inflicted

maybe we would not demand to have
brighter and more fragrant flowers
in our lawn
if we don’t keep peeking at others’ garden
adorned with golden roses
we can’t afford

~~~

For #WhisperingNeds 132, ‘lawn’. Click here to listen.

© annie scribes 2018
all rights reserved

days before you

I don’t remember days before you. It’s like my brain chucks an entire chapter in the bottom drawer, where pages become yellow and rotten, finally forgotten.

The only signs of those days once in existence are the feelings I get when you step away from my side, even for a moment. I miss you the second you are out of sight. I miss you when we’re in the same room. Hell, I miss you even when we are talking.

I don’t remember days before you, and of all things, they’re the very thing I’m happy to forget.

~~~

For #WhisperingNeds 130, ‘amnesia’.

© annie scribes 2018
all rights reserved