
once upon a cold midnight in november, i figured out how to finally escape from a househould i refuse to call a home and from a discordant family which consists of a drunkard father, an abusive mother, and a wrecked-beyond-repair child. speaking of which, i may as well have stolen my fatherʼs not-so-modern car and drove off to feel the freedom i was deprived of feeling.
gusts of the twelve oʼclock wind, the eerie silence which seemed to be a better lullaby than my motherʼs, the momentary noises from this almost inoperable car, and a blanket of star-studded skies that i could never fathom the end even after following the scintillating trails of the moonʼs borrowed light from the great sun.
of course, who could forget you, whom i met by the outskirts of the townʼs crossroad. you, whom i thought was dead inside a lonesome car but is actually just sleeping. you, whom i had woken up but never looked annoyed unlike my parents each time i knock on their doors. you, who only smiled and shook hands with me as if we were childhood friends who met after ten long years. you, who never let go of my hand when i thought it was just a handshake and pulled me towards the dewy meadows at three oʼclock. you, who laid down beside me and foolishly counted the stars in hopes of knowing how many they were. you, who laughed with me albeit my humour was as good as dead. you, who told your own story like you trusted a stranger like me with all the trust left in you. you, who made me forget of the world i have left behind just to take a taste of a rebellious freedom.
you, who unfortunately had a reality paralleled to mine. you, who was equally as messed up as me. itʼs such a good world weʼre living in, and itʼs a good time to be alive, isnʼt it?
you and i, who eventually had to leave and return to the world we tried to shut out; to drive back to opposite ways with an identical destination waiting, to be buried alive, to forget our free-spirited souls dancing with the wind, and to make this happenstance a distant memory.
this is goodbye, i presume.
YOU ARE READING
graveyard of buried souls
Poetrythrough feathered pens inked with blood and a scarred soul of overflowing abysmal ideologies; there sits an obscured entity, scribbling metaphors and ironies in a crumpled paper of her chaos, seeking for something out of all nothings. and here she u...
