Another one of my 12am writings...

L o v e 

One night I met a woman, maybe around her late 60's, old and weak, yet she still had that keenness in her I never quite understood.

I was young and she was the opposite of it yet her heart never aged along with time.

We talked for some hours, killing time on that park bench along the river. I told her my story, she told me hers. 

As she said she was married, I can't help but ask her what love meant for the two of them.

She then answered by telling me their story.

She was a lovely girl that had a special place in her heart for singing. Always did she sang, and mostly - her songs were about him.

She will sing for him all the time and it made him fall in love with her over again, each piece making him drawn to her even more.

He loved the way she sang; every words and every melody, and somehow he understood the sweetness in her voice better than anybody else.

She paused her story and smiled at me. With confusion, I asked "Well, how does that define love?" 

Her smile grew bigger, and with an "oops", she said "Did I forget to mention he was deaf?"

~

He could not understand her words nor her song - But he understood her soul so terribly well.

Love.

The girl who is, but not

              She is the ballerina 

                  she never was

           She missed the songs

               she never danced

         She keeps the memories

                 she never knew

                - And your smile,

             she adores that too

             She craved for nights

                 she never lived

                She didn't know,

            but she's sure she did

                She never wanted 

                    a perfect lad

               -You were the man

                  she only loved

             b u t    n e v e r    h a d 

page 1 of yancs' journal

Days have passed and my hours revolved around tragic memories and saddened thoughts of the past that still hold me down like an anchor to the sea.

Staring at blank space looking like a mad man sitting at a corner of a dimmed room and forever asking where it went wrong.

It's tiring, really.

I've experienced worse nights than this and uglier battles with myself but sometimes it's the consistency of it all that's slowly drowning me.

Well, what can I say. That's me.

I'm weak when I'm brave, I'm scared when I'm happy, I'm unsure of almost everything around me, but mostly - I'm in need of you.

If it isn't too much to ask, of course.

A saddened wish

You never actually feel the pain of being alone, -yet, when you have company to surround you for the moment.

Everything seems fine at first, but every laughter is a bliss, and happiness is nothing but a quick swish of wind. So the moment after each conversations, when the lights finally go dimmer, when you're finally alone in a room, silence comes to choke you - then the sting in the chest follows to remind you of your solitary.

No, it's not fatal.

The pain won't kill you in the moment. - But the feeling of everyday torture, the thought of having to do the same sad routine all over again, the feeling when you pass by happy people and see genuine smiles, it all will eventually drain the life out of you.


No, it's not fatal.

But you'll wish it was.



~ Yancs

The way she writes

They say she was an open book, a window with transparent glass - so easy to read, so easy to see pass through.

If she's happy she'll think lovely thoughts and her pen will do the same, if she's sad her poems will mourn along with her.

If she's angry her writings will scream her hatred away, if she's in the mood she'll write very so effortless.

If she's in love, it's that one person all her writings were about.
And if her heart gets broken,

She'll forget how to write.



- yancs damien