I am my words

My poetries woke me

in the middle of a trance

that there is something when I do nothing.

It enveloped me with the nightmare of forgotten things

the misconceptions and misbeliefs. 

My ink rushed to my face 

like cold water,

with the right amount of ice, 

not too frigid but just enough, 

to wake the sleeping anxieties 

and what-ifs that are lulled into slumber. 

I've been in too much comfort of my bed 

that the texture of the paper seems rough on my skin 

I've played safe until it dwelled in me

there must be full of uncertainties and burning fears.

I need to inhale and exhale gallant metaphors 

to breathe in this polluted air. 

My poetries kicked me in the gut 

and showed the possibility of losing words 

That what if you forget every letter in the alphabet, 

what if your hands cannot write even a single line 

or twitch into curvy strokes,

what if I fall down to obliviousness

and can't even remember the word remember?

My poetries shook me off my limbo 

slapped my face with the clock of half-hearted trying. 

All the unfinished pieces suffocated me 

pulling me slowly out of the state I shouldn't be in constantly 

For if I forget my poetries then who will I be?