I am a Prisoner of my Past,
Cause I'm in love with an old fossil
that I'm longing to have back.


But I've stuck my feet 
in wet cement,
and let it harden.
My past insecurities are
like heavy chains,
tied round my ankle.


Why do I hold onto this
old label of myself?
Why am I so
afraid of change?


God please help me,
I'm a Prisoner of my Past.
Cause I'm in love with an old fossil, 
Because I think it's still alive
But the reality of it is,
it's been altered in my mind.

I admire imperfections. 
 
 
But even though 
I'm a perfectionist, 
I do not believe 
in perfect people. 
 
 
So if I ever 
looked at you, 
with the wary eyes 
of a quiet, green snake. 
It's either because
 you did me wrong, 
or that you're just 
way too perfect. 
That's there's not a single flaw 
that I can see in you. 
 
 
And that is because 
 You're too good,  
You're too hopeful, 
You're too smart,  
encouraging, 
  faultless. 
 
 
And I'm just 
 in the backseat, 
Sinking myself, 
 underwater. 
But whenever I'd look up, 
You're just like 
 The glimmer, 
the ocean waves. 
 Passing right over my head. 
You're just like 
The golden light, 
 From behind the curtains, 
as I wake up,  
 squinting. 
 
 
 I just cannot understand 
how you can be
 so unfathomably, 
unbelievably, 
 perfect. 
 
 
So I would like to apologize, 
 For wanting to know 
all of your weaknesses,
 your wounds,
your bruises. 
I apologize, 
 For wanting to see 
you in misery, 
  in anger, 
in frustration. 
I apologize, 
 For wanting to get, 
even a tiny glimpse, 
of what could possibly be, 
your dark side. 
 your shadows.
 your demons. 
 
 
Because I'm a believer of 
  imperfections, 
Yet you're simply just 
 Way too perfect for me,
I cannot stand it. 
 
 
 
 
09.13.20

The pen and paper
are my reflection.
 But now I take a step back,
I look at my reflection—


And I do not recognize
who am I seeing.
 Who is this person,
written in the mirror?


 My pen thinks that she's
a lion, a master, a warrior,
The star of the theater.
 While I'm stumbling down
a steep and rocky slope,
Her words are like a river.


 Who is this person,
written in the mirror?


I thought I was
a stone, a creek, 
a lone, dark forest.
 But this pen I have,
She goes on her own.
I'm just in awe.
 She would write down
my every single thought,
but then they'd all sound
like an alien to me, how odd.


Who is this person,
Written in the mirror?


I never thought I'd be
 so terrified—
of my own handwriting.
Are you really sure,
 That this pen and paper,
That they're my reflection?


 But then,
if you think about it,
This whole world,
it doesn't make sense to me either.


Like why do we see
water falling from the sky? 
 Why does 2 + 3 
always equal 5? 
Why is the sun always
agreeing to shine,
 7 days a week, 
365 days a year, 
until it dies? 


There is absolutely 
 nothing
that’s stopping this world from
 changing its mind, 
except for God. 
 And tomorrow, 
the laws of physics could just 
spontaneously rearrange itself 
without any warning. 


You know, 
 I’m the strangest person I’ve ever met, 
but I think this entire universe 
is even stranger. 


It’s so strange indeed, 
very strange… but yet, 
 how can it be so beautiful? 
Just like all those fiery, 
twinkling stars in the night sky. 
 Those giant balls of fire 
suspended in utter nothingness. 
 They are so strange, 
yet they don’t ever question 
the oddity of their existence, 
they don’t ever question 
 why they are the way they are, 
they just keep on shining until 
 they can shine no longer. 
Just how can they possibly do that?


And to think, 
that I’m like the universe too: 
 Strange, paradoxical, and mysterious. 
Full of never-ending oddities. 
Full of blatantly, glaring imperfections, 
yet so fearfully and wonderfully made.


…I just need to be at peace with that.


Because this person who I see,
 written in the mirror,
is, and has always been truly:
 me.