Enchanted Journeys

I speak candidly when I say Wendy Darling is my hero. Perhaps the contorted faces that line in front of me as I speak of my devotion are valid, but nonetheless, I say it with the utmost confidence. Believing was something I could do best: assuming I was great and everything in the entire world would and could be conquered, fall into the palms of my hand. Believing in these happy thoughts, alongside five siblings of which I govern, just as Wendy. 

I’ve lived in dozens of worlds; my life a mere choice of which I decided. Within books, I sought solace, confiding in my chosen family. No friends were as loyal as these two cherished companions. 

I did not desire a mediocre life; I wanted to drown in my yearning, my hope, my dream. 

Yet, even amid these blissful musings, flight is impossible without a sprinkle of fairy dust.

I wish I braced a warning of some sort: that one day, I’d've experienced the last dream of my soul. People perceive what they desire, and when my very own Tinkerbell shone with resplendent radiance, my existence, my individuality became a perilous threat. I was rare, so was Wendy, so are we all. Only so few choose to recognize it. I knew, I pledged to embrace it. The ignorant did not comply, not them, not my tink, so the few were forced to suffer. We’re all celestial sylphs, causing cosmic warfare amidst the moon's bloodied skies. We’re all supernovas. 

I passed this wavering path; the one that attempted to strip me of my individuality. That morning I woke up and realized opinions were a dime a dozen, validation was something I needn't thrive in, and loyalty isn't a word but a lifestyle that too many fail to follow. That was the day both our lives changed, not for a man or a job, but because both Wendy and I knew our happiness was worth more when it resided in our own hands. 

So Wendy left. Yes, Peter cried; yes, the lost boys whined. This world shamed her for thriving in her definition of ‘joy’. She did not fall captive to motherhood but escaped from the cages of others' joy. One day I'll find my calling, just as Wendy did. 

Through hatred, mermaids, and the treacherous Hook, Wendy acquired her fairy dust. After a voyage of a lifetime, she found solace back home, amidst family and books. Forever adorned with ethereal fairy dust, I stand in that realm, here and now, ready to embark on my own extraordinary journey. 

“What if you fall? Oh darling, what if you fly?”

Have you tried frogetting? - poem

Im Hopelessly hung on before, a wretched ghost of past,

The past,

I measle past my present,

Revisiting,

Re,

But these people, their future so paramount,

I shall never find myself woven within their dreams,

For I am the haunting past they flee from,

Or perhaps,

I'm the present they didn't want fate to lead to

Bitter stained cheeks,

Luna you scar,

My heart its reeking of loneliness,

I'm the pariah, the one they disdain,

Your laughter was once mine,

You hate me,

Why?

Was the closet too bleak, suffocating with despair? 

Is the present more sheer, a veil hiding the scars I bear, 

Since when does an exemplary future disregard the past that holds you, 

Perhaps it broke you… but I didn't, 

Yet here I stand, shattered and true.

I deserve acknowledgement,

A word,

A glance,

Together

The womb breeds regret - poem

How am I redundant,

I am the procreator,

I am the raiser,

Some have the nerve to say I hold a stronger connection to the child for we were once binded as one,

I am the producer,

And therefore forced to do nothing else,

No, not because of concern or worry that perhaps our innards would explode from the fumes of life,

No, its because woman cant handle the blatant truth,

They say that we do not understand because real life is hard,

We don't know what we’re going into.

They tell us we don't know better and therefore are imprisoned in the cage, we must grow to love,

But is that really the point?

Let me fall,

Let those years of fury be the most relishing of my life,

Isn't the point of this choice?

Freedom is revoked because of the fear of subjugation.

They shame us due to our innocence and ignorance,

Yet never let us be free,

What do you want from a woman?

Dear heavenly father - poem

 I’ve spent the last few weeks practicing how to mourn you for the rest of my life, 

I already know my heart will forever miss the weight of yours,

My lips will forever miss the graze of your,

And I will forever miss what we never got to be,

The possibilities are endless,

But I lay without a muse,

No ending at hand,

My pages are tattered,

You are gone,

I’ve taken up a life of liberation,

I sought for risks,

Because I have nothing else worth my fury, my rage, my joys,

I’ve lost all i possibly could,

Within you, I lost myself,

So if you ever have to battle through the pearly gates,

Call for me,

I’ll die to defend the soul standing before the mother of this ache,

You my love,

Would only find hindrance due to our entwinement,

And I wouldn't mind hell with you

My masterpiece - poem

I painted a picture,

Of us before we died,

A masterpiece that I tore to shreds once completed,

I need not a reminder of the beauty that was stripped from me,

I tore my painting to shreds and realised the canvas was bare,

It always had been,

I just saw the white as fluffy clouds shaping my future,

I just saw the white as the purity and innocence I once had,

I just saw the white as perfection 

Now I see the flashing lights sent to blind me,

Now I see the white cells of my blood trying to shield my wounds as they seep out my bloodied heart,

Now I see the cold, desolate snow you left me in

Now I see that my masterpiece was only ever special because of the love I had for you,

The love that made you unique,

The love you breed,

The love you thrived from,

I put you on some pedestal, 

But you were simply average,

And we were simply nothing,

Actually no, 

We had something,

But I had loved too much,

I had painted masterfully, a tale of tragedy,

I had flown too close to the sun,

And you melted my wings and let me fall

Bounded by war - poem

Bounded by war,

I stay stagnant,

I stay prisoner to the dark edges of my mind,

Withered poppies, painted a red that bleeds,

My heart now ice,

Void of joy, brimming with agony,

My tempest of torment,

I am woven shut,

I have been killed,

But groped of the joy of not feeling,

Uniqueness breeds disdain - poem

There's this foreign concept about rarity,

I dream dreams,

Perhaps they don't differ from others but why should that matter,

Why should it matter, they're not new, 

If shared by others, just as pure?

Rarity implies a resistance to the idea of ambition,

And my right to succeed certainly doesn't rely on those around me

Why does my uniqueness need to batter the rest,

The concept of rarity is competition,

Judging normality is as disgraceful as judging the opposers,

My aspiration shall not be forced upon by society,

I shall not deform my life to please the outsiders,

My life may be traditional,

But who's to say the rest should follow?