xx Ella.Z

Writing is an underestimated art. To the one who once asked me to write something, this one's for you. You once told me to write something about you. I laughed at that moment, thinking that I couldn't write you out. I wanted to but I refused. Because to me, writing means forgetting and I didn't want to forget you, not just yet. But guess what? I'm writing this one out for you. I'm writing you out of how you made me feel lucky to have you even just for a little while. I'm writing you out to remind me that I wasn't alone every single night with having you from the other side. I'm writing you out to reminisce me of all the words you once drew to make my heart flutter like it's true. I'm writing you out to make me recognize you in my mind, over and over again, if only you knew. Indeed, writing means forgetting but somehow, writing you out means remembering, missing and hoping. 

If only he knew my words are true. And my words are all meant for him. I write and write, From day to night. I write my heart out, And you it's all about. I write to make you see, Still I can't make you love me.

Is this love or am I just catching feelings? I turn him into an art when I'm clueless to know the real meaning. How can I explain this feeling? To feel yet to know if it's real. A strange feeling of missing someone, Though he's here and never gone. He knew nothing of this longing, I don't know where this is going. So then I wrote him in my heart, To turn this feeling into an art.

When being asked who are my muses, I have to say ..all of you. These hands just couldn't stop writing when you came to me with an inspiring tale. Muses? I have a lot of them and I'm not ashamed of it. I can't tell you their names but I can tell you this --he'll be the one who I used to love, the one I left for another, the one I cheated on, the one I secretly in love with but can't call my own, the one who fill in my loneliness at night, the one who I think is a nuisance of wanting my attention, the one who I smiled at when we cross path, the one who I laid eyes on while sipping my favourite frap at Starbucks. Indeed, he can be anyone at all. Anyone that I have encountered at least once or twice or more in my life. And truthfully, I use them without permission to get inspired. Well, isn't that what a muse's job is? To be the source of inspiration to a starving poet like me who feeds on inspirations and turn living souls into poems? My guess is...

My words are all I have to offer. To write is probably the most sincere thing I could ever done for someone. It'll be a long night and she knew, To write this story of you. It won't be a page or two, She'll write a book for you.

Wonderful, isn't it? To have a beautiful creature called muse that made words flowing in your veins, indefinitely.  A perfect poem description of the muse in the short story scrap I once wrote. The taste of his kiss, it's deadly. A lethal weapon that could kill me. Like a poison calls for no mercy, In a flash moment, it stings me. The tone of his voice, it's inviting. A sly invitation to where, I can't resist. He rings as a dangerous calling, My heartbeat skips, to that whisper of his. The stars in his eyes, it's heavenly. A gateway to a world, which I travel in. Though his stare gleams a dream for me, Lost my way to infinity and within.

Every poet is nasty. They make up words --stealing them from every single damned being they have encountered.  I don't want your love, I want your egotistical to drive me mad. I don't want your touch, I just want to feel your whisper of sweet nothings bathing over me. I don't want your promises, I want all of your lies to sugar-coated me. I don't want your attention, I badly want your ignorance to keep me starving for days. What I want? I certainly don't want you but I want what I want from you. For I am that one nasty little poetess you knew quite well who will suck inspirations out of you --to get my fingers dancing on the papers with words and oh! nothing but words while my heart burning down in flames for you.

My muse confuses me, sometimes. And I can't help but to change the way I write. Minutes ago, I knew exactly what to write. I had these mixed feelings of melancholy and rage of getting ignored by you. Seconds ago, you rang me. "Sorry, couldn't get to you earlier. How was your day?" These feelings I have are fluttering from the inside as if butterflies filling up my tummy.  Honestly, I have no idea what to write now.

Another day, another guy, another muse. This is literally everyone's favourite of my interpretation of muse. I wish you wouldn't be just another guy who says he'll stay but later, astray. Just another guy who wishes goodnight but never by my side. The one who keeps me laughing but in the end, we're completely nothing. Indeed, you were just another guy who saw me and came by --to be just another guy I called a muse, letting my hand to write and my heart to bruise.

I was never in love with a poet but he was an artist. But I have to wonder, can a poet actually write without having any muse at all? Once I fell in love with a poet. He writes everyday and made me his muse. To inspire him to do things he's passionate about was like a magical feeling. It made me fall in love more with him every time he writes and knowing I'm all he writes about.  How gullible I was to fall for him and his words, not knowing the real meaning of muse. Of course, he caressed me with love in return, fulfilling my own dream of longing to be loved by him. I loved him and he loved me back but his love was for the love of wonders that I could make him write.  That day finally came and it hit me. He shared his work to the world, gaining followers and avid readers all over. He wanted to write more while I craved for his affection. I inspired him thoroughly for his work but he never gave me the real love I was expecting and I started to question, "W...

Basically, it's about a guy I knew who is super shy that I had to put a stop to whatever we had.  Can you feel the disappointed tone at the end of the poem? That's how I felt. I know this guy, He's breathless, He's charming, Oh what a guy! He's that guy, I couldn't care less, He's the one I'm chasing, But then he's shy. Too shy for a guy, And so I sigh, And I sigh, And I sigh..

An ode to the bad boys.  Who doesn't love them? Let me explore your mind, babe. For now, for a little while sake. I want to know you, I want to know more. I want to know what's on your mind, I eat thoughts, what a bore! What keeps you awake at night? What gets you to lust for us or not quite? What troubles you really in life as you lay? What causes you to finish every lasy pack of That damned cigarettes you had for a day? Let me, let me! Because once I'm done, I'm done forever. I'll run, I'll leave. As you like, as you wish. For I have no rights to stay. When being asked to go away.

It's a story within a poem and I was inspired by Lang Leav's Angels.  Added a little element of music as the angel was supposedly a pianist.  Last night, I went to sleep early, And the dream took me to a far way land,  It began reeling nice and perfectly,  With music playing, a melody so grand.  A stranger approach me for merely a dance,  Fingers were on the keys and then he stands,  Blurry and faceless as I took a glance,  A bow was given while gently reaching my hands.  We danced all night as the music sings,  I was still blind to look of who he might be,  But behind his back was a pair of wings,  To my sudden shock, I began to flee.   He chased after me, out from the ballroom,  Wings unused, he ran to grab me close,  All fears shattered as calm began to bloom,  Could he be a angel sent, only heaven knows?  What if he is an angel to save me?  As I was heavenly broken...