Poems

Words I’d like to call art.

Eternal sunshine

the real question is would you erase them from your memory if you could?

some say no, for the sake of it all and the fragment of lingering forever question of “where do memories go when we forget them?”

some say yes in a heart beat, for the sake of their own well being and not caring on how life would be in other perspectives

i think they’re wrong

i don’t think you should be deemed as selfish for signing the contract

what happens to the memories of those who dip their hands in your waters and decide to leave right after?

what happens to the memories of those who end wars and want nothing in return but acceptance?

what happens to the memories of those who protects you from the clutch your own mind has against you?

sometimes there’s no joy in watching it burn away, no anger, no sorrow, just indifference

if i keep questioning those with no answers i’d be a wandering soul till the end of all

so, i’d say yes in a heartbeat because my heart still skips a beat when i see a fragment of you

yet i’ll still be a fool and not give up your bracelet mid procedure, though, it never really existed did it?

you prevented it to happen, you prevented me from you

i think you’re wise enough to say no, but you know me

i’d rather forget about peace all at once than having to remember it in a form of you

I don’t like calling my art poems though much might say so, I never think that my silly little writings are ever good enough to be called “art” I always thought that, that would make actual poets felt invalidated. But if art is whatever the artist thinks is, then I’d like to think that this is art.

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