I’m sharing this as an addition to my lastest post. Sorry if it’s depressing, I just figured it would be a way of showing you guys I’ve not stopped writing at all.

“Unintentional poem to a hoarder (me)

And just when she thought she was safe,

Just when she thought she was over it,

The thing came back.

I came back as a slight tremor,

It came back as a tickle on the back of her hand

It came back as anxiety and depression.

Just when she thought she could move on,

She stopped moving.

She only walked back, senseless, to put everything away.

Away in a box, 

A box meant to be thrown away,

A box she would keep forever.

She walked once more to hide everything away,

She kicked dirty clothes under the bed,

She would still use them nonetheless.

She didn’t unpack the plastic bags full of old clothes either.

No, she would keep them.

Just when she thought she was safe,

The thing came back

And it made her shiver.

She shivered for she knew

She could never go back,

She would never be safe,

She would never get cured.

As time went by,

The thing grew stronger.

Hiding in the back of her mind,

Like a beast lurking in the shadows.

It would ask for little offerings.

A napkin, a bit of sugar, 

The cork of an empty wine bottle…

Little thing to keep it serene.

And she thought she could get better, 

And she threw away bags of things,

And she felt like she was rising from death.

But deep inside, she knew the thing was anything

But dead.

A whole year went by,

A year she thought to be good.

But by the end she realised

The thing had done it again.

She was afraid of throwing away the bag of cookies,

It still had crumbs that she could eat.

She was afraid of eating the chips

That lay flat over her desk,

What if she needed them?

Her tubes of paint, her brushes,

Her palettes, her solvents,

They were all a mess.

In fact, her whole room was a mess.

And she realised, 

She realised too late,

That there were clothes under the bed,

That there were napkins on the bedside table

That her clothes were still in boxes and plastic bags,

And not only that.

She had kept away other things in another place.

She had kept them away because she was afraid.

She was afraid someone else would take them,

She was afraid someone else would use them,

She was afraid someone else would keep them.

So she took them far away,

And neither her nor anybody else could use them,

Not then, perhaps not ever.

But she was okay,

Because at least her things were safe.

Safe, unlike her.”

grey

i.

if you asked me how i’m feeling, i’d paint the colour grey

i don’t know what it means, but you know what i’m trying to say

or at least, i hope you do

at least, i hope you do

.

if you asked me how i’m feeling

let me ask you another question, do i look grey?

i don’t know the answer, but i forgot my colour pencils today

you can go and help them paint

.

ii.

i heard the preacher say, think with both your head and your heart

i don’t know what it means, but i know i cry too hard

or at least, you think i do

at least, you think i do

.

if i tore open a wound

you wouldn’t open it up

why can’t it be, the same with my heart?

i’ll take down the sales sign, keep my words for myself

the grey paint’s been spilled all over the shelves

“When I wake up from these dreams, I am reminded that loving you is a soul experience in a human body, and for that you are my sweet melancholy.”

Written by @inafuturewithyou Yasemin. C ©

“And there we were, another dimension manifest as pure orbs of light. We circled eachother like the planets, our embrace emanating in hues of pink and trusting blues whilst the Northern Lights would look up at us in jealousy. When I wake up from these dreams I am reminded that loving you is a soul experience in a human body and for that youare my sweet melancholy.”

@inafuturewithyou yasemin. C ©

I wonder if I was born sick and depressed or this universe just disappoints me way too much.

I could never forget anything. That is my biggest punishment.

December is about - losing grips, giving up on dreams, breaking down into pieces, waiting for an old friend to be in our life,again. -A thick hopelessness,stuck in the throat.

December is all about fantasy and an unknown courage, picking up the pieces and building ourselves again. December is surreal. December is an illusion.