MIKROKOSMOS

My therapist said to me: "Write letters about life, then burn them down, Write them again, and read it once more" And that is the greatest piece of advice  I've been given this year, She says I need to get my life Back on track and straightened again, But with nightmares I don't chose to have, and  Monsters I can't help but hate, Self-care is a word I've come to loathe, The four walls of my room is all I have. I'm never hungry, almost always sad, My blinded eyes, a haunting past, Lengths of rope in my hand I yield, Control and chaos- I crave. So I started writing about everything I feel, Burnt them down, and started again. Took time to myself and got ignored for it- But pray tell me, how can I work when my head's a mess? Home doesn't feel like home anymore, But maybe that's just me, my wounded core, But just like my therapist told me that day, I'll keep on writing, and burning again.

  In mirrors I see, A silence so deep, yet I hear The rippling of the surface In mirrors I hear,  Colours of bright, a rainbow of light, Yet RED: or white? In the loneliness of my head, And the quiet of my soul, I'm a walking contradiction,  A fiction within reality, but am I? On days I feel the most undeserving, To the walls I pray, A "strawberry lipstick state of mind" As I dip my soul in chocolate hues And harness it in gold. The solitude I gift myself, The Art Of Control, I see, I hear, And in mirrors I seek. 

 TO THE POET, DEATH IS BUT THE MOST EXCITING ADVENTURE.  Where the wild things grow and birdies call, The smell of Spring; wafting though the town, Pudgy footfalls across the hallway, Pitterpattering on unsteady feet- she's walking. The gentle sound of steps on stone, She just turned twelve, the Little Dove, She knows of life but not of death, A pirate of the seas? Or the heir to the throne? Sweet sixteen she is, the graceful little miss, Be a lady, they said.  The steady heartbeat as she runs up and down the track of sand Athletic she is, nineteen going on twenty. A marathon of a hundred, the end is at hand. "Dear, dear girl, sunshine she was" They say looking down on the gone woman's corpse Oh so young, yet so old No footprints on snow, for she has risen  Above all kin, A heart of gold. HER FOOTSTEPS WILL FOLLOW THROUGH SPRING AND WINTER, THROUGH THE GRASS AND SNOW, UNTIL SHE IS PRESENT- REBORN. ~Chenu 💓

  You know what they say about 2am, it’s both the Devil’s hour and the Angel’s hour, and it makes sense that it is. 2am is when the insecurities come stumbling down on you, where you have no where to hide, unless you distract yourself on Instagram and chill with Netflix. “We’re sleeping on our problems like we solve them in our dreams; We wake up early morning and they’re still under the sheets” (Louis Tomlinson circa 2020) It’s when you think of everything and nothing all at once, where you wonder what you are doing with your life, where you mourn for your ex, where you wish your pillow was a little bit warmer and where you wish you had a midnight snack because all this unnecessary thinking had made you hungry. It’s when you realize the maybe, just maybe, it would be easier to let go and cry into your pillow, or blast on your favorite music on speakers and hope your family won’t wake up. It’s when you tell the stars what you miss the most in life, and where you make new drea...

  Sleek polished wood, horse hair strings "brand spankin' new" my father said. This little toy would be my muse In the years yet not here, But did I know I had in hand my greatest escape? no.  Note to note I learnt, let my soul dance across the strings My fingers worn and torn in red Yet my heart refuses to surrender to- the distress I felt upon my frame It is nothing compared to the pure euphoria  That lights up my soul with joy as I play. Just so young, I was Had not yet seen the horrors of the world, but  to me, It felt so grown-up that I was writing tunes from what I called pain. Oh, how little I knew! A decade I step, A bold twenty I am and I have now seen what the world looks beyond my control I still dance with the notes, And play hide and seek with the tunes i built from my pain but- My hands run over the ivories of the eighty eight, While my muse lays forgotten in the dark. What a hike this has been.  ~Chenu 💗 Sing, m...