...

I am all sorts of lucky, all kinds of blessed, Kelly thinks to herself as she wanders aimlessly while kicking a stone around. The sky was hazy above her, the clouds gray and gloomy. A car zoomed past. A cat meowed on the side of the road. The leaves of the trees rustled. Still Kelly went about her business of kicking the little stone around, walking towards nowhere in particular.

I am all sorts of lucky, all kinds of blessed, she says over and over in her head. I am alive and clothed and fed. It is better, she thinks, for her to dwell on positive things instead of negative ones. After all, isn't one's perspective important? And isn't it just amazing that she could take an experience and look at it from a different light so she wouldn't feel too hurt?

She stops as she reaches the park she used to go to with her parents back when she was still a little child. She made her way to the swing that was always her favorite. It's a little rusty now, but the kids still like sitting on it, especially when they have their mom or dad to push them, or to kiss their wounds when they fall. Kelly watched as a mother helped her daughter up a slide and coaxed her to slide down. A teardrop slowly fell down Kelly's cheek.

I am all sorts of lucky, all kinds of blessed, she thinks again. But she feels her heart aching with a pain she's having a hard time holding in. After all, being left by one's own mother is reason enough to be sad, isn't it? When all she's been left with is a note that says how sorry her mom is and how she'll try to write? It's all too vague. No further explanations, just a bunch of words strung together to form an apology that was lousy at best.

Raindrops started to fall, and the people at the park started running towards their houses, their cars, or opened their umbrellas and walked home. Kelly stayed just where she was even though the rain was already drenching her. It's hard to be concerned about one's own self when you're convinced that nobody's concerned about you anyway. Besides, tears are less noticeable in the rain.

Kelly's mother used to tell her that when the rain falls, it's because the angels are crying for the broken heart of a pure soul. As she thought of the memory, Kelly can't help but smile. Mama, you're making the angels cry, she said aloud, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the winds will take her message to her mother and bring her back.

--unfinished--

Yey, a song!

[Sometimes, I get a thrill from facing a blank page, simply because I have no idea about what might suddenly spring forth from my fingers. This is one of those times. I was supposed to write a short story, but my mind seemed to have a life of its own, and I got to craft this song instead. It's already got a tune, I just hope I don't forget it! :P I don't have a title for it yet, though. Anyway, here it is:]

~*~

How long has it been since you stopped saying my name?
How far apart have we drifted away?
If the world is so small, how come our paths do not cross?
Is it just me who's missing you, or do you, too, feel the loss?

I gaze out of my window, see raindrops fall on the ground
and I remember walking in the rain with you when you were still around
Is it so wrong to want to bring those moments back?
When I know you're trying to keep your new relationship intact?

There are a thousand what ifs running through my mind
When it was still us, how could I have been so blind?
I regret that I didn't see, didn't realize
that it was you who made me feel the most alive

I can't help but wonder what could have been if you were still mine
Would we somehow get to make things alright this time?
Or is it really better that you end up with him?
I'm sorry but I haven't gotten over my dream of getting you back

If I could only turn back time, I'd do things differently
But I know there's nothing I can do now that I've set you free
There's this one hope that I hold deep in my heart
That maybe someday in time we'll cease to be apart

There are a thousand what ifs running through my mind
When it was still us, how could I have been so blind?
I regret that I didn't see, didn't realize
that it was you who made me feel the most alive

So Here I Am

I could still remember it as if it happened just yesterday. Our 2nd grade teacher in English asked us to write a poem and to make an illustration that matches it. I remember that, at the tender age of six, I had written about the sunset. I remember putting words in to make the poem a rhyming one, because at that age, I was still under the impression that a poem is not a poem if the lines don't rhyme. It wasn't a spectacular poem, but I remember that the teacher chose to put it on the bulletin board, and my heart swelled with pride to see something of mine-- my brainchild-- in that board at the back of the classroom. My classmates crowded around my work, complimenting me without really understanding the effect their words had on my psyche.

I didn't know it then, but from that day on, I had loved writing with all my heart. For wasn't writing easy? All I really had to do was look into my heart and words would start pouring out on paper. Sometimes, I didn't have to do any thinking at all. Writing was easy; it was like breathing for me. As I grew up, though, I've learned to hide behind my insecurities, thinking my works weren't good enough. I have read books and stories and poems, and I know that what my pen writes on paper are no match. They are but lousy attempts to write from someone who doesn't really know how to convey her thoughts in words that are as beautiful, as coherent, as fluidly written as the ones in books.

Protective and secretive. That was how I was about my works. I sometimes would write something and feel proud that I've accomplished something, but then I'd read it a few minutes later and think that what I wrote was crap.

But there will always be individuals out there who are better at writing than I am. There will always be people who might not understand my stories, might not get the meaning behind my poems, might not be touched by my songs. But this is what I do. I write. Sure it's not Shakespeare, or Wordsworth, but it's me.

So here I am. Here are the pieces I hold dear, simply because I know nobody else could have created them other than me. They may not be as beautiful or as great as I'd like, but heck, they're mine. For one person to be touched by what I write is enough reward.