A gift from the sun, sand and shadows
Moonlight and Joshua stars, of course
A tattoo, a brown dot, on my ring finger
On my left hand, no less

We never wanted a house, the kitchen, the foyer. We could give barely a ****, really. We just wanted a room, a desk, ceiling to floor bookshelves filled with books and windows that overlooked tops of large oak trees. We wanted the sunlight all morning and afternoon, the rain, the vines that grow around the windowsill and music from old turntables spilling through the storm. We wanted the groves of apple trees and strawberry bushes for our morning walks and the expanse of the entire cosmos for our viewing pleasure during the evenings. We wanted prancing on mountain tops and kissing the sublime in paddle boarding excursions and free diving to a pod of sleeping ***** whales. We wanted sunlit art studio with watercolors and oil paint and graphite pieces on thick white paper and raw clay on the wheel and ***** splattered aprons on wooden stools. We wanted

i asked the stars some questions
they said, "sorry, nothing dear."
i asked the moon if you were sleeping
and the sun answered in his stead
she said, "i just put him to bed, you should also get some rest."
i just sighed and looked at the clouds
and they just cried with me.

to realize i was loved
is love too

it ended
a milestone, a fire-
work without the blast
quiet, underwhelmed I fell
asleep

but this end,
the bittersweet replica of
the memories and books and words
of crowds and hallways and people
whose faces pass and pass and pass

this end, it has to mean some-
thing, thing that I can't hold nor revisit
but the thing that sinks in the encrusted
bit of my heart. The thing that will manifest when
years down, in a new home, or a new country or a
new mountain. This thing, the four years of life here,
there, nowhere, is, in many ways,
everywhere.

heart beats to
the taps of
your keyboards.

turning over it's teeth to
brush the tongue
the beast, scared and revered, tip-
toes down the stair-
case. It breathes the air of the
brine down the Atlantic where
the poet once left small
footprints.

who can see such a magnificent
              hush my child,
             shh shh shh for the storm comes
star, a crocodile husk hiding
it salmon skin

lover, lover, lover
breathe it in
for the wind will knock you
dead, prior.

stopped crying over
the leaves; their footsteps echoing so far
that i can't hear it
everyday.

let them go, truly.
Nothing bitter left to commemorate
but now good times makes me smile,
faint.

wished them well
for they are good, still;

become ashen and risen
like a golden phoenix
into words

known that they would too,
just a different bird.

if everything we say has been said
if everything we think has been thought
what is the point?
who cares?

the futility of the meaningless in the words
that have no depth

and i want to stop
but i keep searching

there is nothing romantic about being lost
the danger, the possibility
i could see it, the big sign but i can't get out
it goes round and round in a circle
and i cannot leave

this is not a poem
I just turned 20 and i feel lost and still do not have my **** together as I feel like all 20 years old do and should
if you are of age or older
please leave your advice, stories, words below

at this point, anything would help to keep me from freaking out about my impending doom
i appreciate it
and look forward to hearing from you soon

love,
anna

you were like a van Gogh painting
so colorful and vibrant but always so melancholy
and i couldn't always figure out what and why
but perhaps that's why i found you so beautiful

they say that when a goblin cries
it pours even in the brightest morning
when a goblin smiles
flowers bloom even in the midst of winter

My dreams were always vague, simple
to be happy
to lead and live the life I was meant to lead
to save the world

those whispered thoughts kept in the small vials of my heart
kept me going and kept me working
for an obscure THE DREAM

but I think, I finally found THE DREAM
secured it inside the confined space between my hands  
i  know now what I want and was meant to become

and THE DREAM scares me, worries me, stresses me at the sake of failure and my insignificance and my insufficiency
but most of all it flutters the sleeping butterflies and churns the blood of my tired silent heart

*and I simply can't wait for it to be real

we all woke up
with another violence
another death
in our news and our feed

we all woke up
with shock and grief
and that ever so helpless sigh

we all woke up
knowing that the world we keep waking up to
becomes a bit more like hell everyday

to so many senseless deaths and torn tragedies
to all those insincere prayers and thoughts
when the **** are we going to talk about the real issue
the gun violence

when the **** is the right ******* time your ******* to admit
that we need gun control right now because it makes no ******* sense that in one of the most developed, largest, richest countries in the 21st century have people with automatic rifles that could hurt over 500 people. it just doesn't make sense

and with another tear in our social media feed, this will fade until another erupts until another erupts until another erupts
until we realize that we have been in hell the whole time

if life is a flower
and love the honey

you are the bee.

took a break to find myself

that's what you said

but when you came back

the you i found wasn't the you i hoped you would find

you have to
hold on
thin gossamer of a rope
perhaps a figment of your imagination or
a trembling vial that will fall with the slightest wind
because everyone is hurting and tired and sick

and there is you, this magnificent ray of a
******* light that the world needs to keep breathing

so hold on
to whatever it may be
because you
you are worth so much more than
this insult or that person or that test or that job
you
by the virtue of breathing and existing and living
are the very best, highest epitome
of this race we call human

they say that self-pity is the worst medicine
but then again
you were my worst habit

Today
make me a promise
to never make me one
that one about forever.

then tomorrow
let's do the same
until we run out of time.

for so long
we were a beautiful fairytale
red lipstick and white smile
bright eyes and big sunglasses

for so long
we became the talk
of envy, of jealousy
flicker of a burnt cigarette
broken, creaking horse carousel
in a dead circus

for so long
we tried to buy
our happiness
with every kiss
with every word

then we realized
we sold each other
instead.

when the media, the government, the world tells you to yell, scream, hate

Stand strong, smile, hug and hug some more.

Love, love, and love.

Fight until you have nothing else left.

You, you amazing beautiful ray of light, is America.

Let me remain a stranger

to this big, beautiful, intimidating world

into a world of my own.

your eyes are disillusioned,

but your feet knows and remembers

what your mind refuses to.

To be frankly honest,

it is sad that the word feminism even exist.

Isn't equality a given, granted, innate law of every human being, regardless of who they are?

Why do we have to fight for a right that is inherently ours?

And curiously still, why does society take away that right as if it is theirs?

Indeed, how sad it is that we have to fight for feminism, when it should be an implied, understood concept by all.

dear lovely stranger,

perceive your life, in its exact and precise moment with all its jagged wounds and bleeding scars and broken smiles and flittering moments of happiness, as you would in the eyes of a stranger you can't seem to forget from all these years ago who only lives as a fading silhouette in your memories.

And I promise, lovely stranger,
that they will see the magic in you that you can't seem to recognize in your own eyes.

i think i like the illusion of you more than you

1 Don't and 1 Do in Life that matter*

Don't*
Don't Ever Say "If I were only . . . "

"Do"
Do Always Say "Since I am . . ."

One who longs too much
        who romanticizes too often
        who dreams impossible dreams*

yet

when faced with reality
retreats to the dark corner

please
please
please

i have one request

don't take him away

i will give you what you need
so
please
don' take him away

we are all laughing to cry
we are all playing to forget

we are all living to die

we are all loving to lose


we are all breathing
to
stop*


but each moment you
laugh, play, live, love, breathe

is

one less moment to cry, forget, die, lose, stop.

poet is only a poet when they can speak words as if they were a depthless well filled with meanings, heartbreaks, hope

singer is only a singer when their voices drip with honey, pain, and soul

dancer is only a dancer when their toe meets their palm and their body paints itself to the song

me; then, what am I?

Trying to write poetry again after months and months
is
like
rereading all my Shel Silverstein poem books
&
attempting to create a time machine to go back
to
my
*good old days

the lullaby the silence sleeps in
is
the vibration of your laughter

the rhythm the eternity breathes out
is
the thumping of your *heart

all I need to remember is that
no one has everything,

*but everyone has something.

We blame beauty for all our societal issues.

The problem in our society
isn't
beauty
:|ˈbyo͞otē|
noun
a beautiful or pleasing thing or person

It is
conformity
: |kənˈfôrmitē|
noun
behavior in accordance with socially accepted conventions or standards

At least when they leave

the

e a r t h
                               for good,

you could

t
e
l
l
                                                yo­urself,

that they
s t i l l
love

you.

But when they are
breathing,
healthy,
glowing in someone else's arms when you are standing

           in
                   front
                                of them,


*how the hell do you explain that
to
your
self?

we dream
not to
see
smell
touch
hear
taste

but to
*be

hammering the hammer of wit
drilling the holes through friendship
breaking the walls with a smile
paving a path

down his cold, steel, hard heart

until it's **b r o k e n

so **** soon
all of sudden
all this will be memories
time flies
when you want that one extra day
once more
the calendar flips
years change
days turn to nights
and **** you don't know what the hell happened
and you wished you could have met them sooner
and you forget to thank god that you have met them in the first place
people walk many aisles
but a very few important ones
and we are all the spectators
waving our flowers
and holding our tears
down that aisle
until god or devil meets you at the altar
the time ticks
and tocks
the people you met
the memories you made
the lives you touched
the air you breathed
the place you gave your heart to
all whisks away
as that wispy old smile graces your withered lips
and the single unshed tear rolls down your wrinkled skin
you remember
those glorious and beautiful and

of beauty graced by a kiss of an angel
                               *&
*of heart caressed by a hand of a cupid

death:  |deTH|
              noun
              the end of the life of a person or organism
doesn't scare me



death*: |deTH|
             noun
            the inevitability; fact that it will eventually visit everyone sometime; no way out; the waiting
does.

you know... there are three phases that I think of choosing
well, not phases, but states. State of death ,State of living, and State of well nothing. State of death. Sometimes you just don't want anything to do. You don't want death necessarily, but eternal sleep sounds not too bad and pretty fancy. It's as if you are so caught up with everything, that you want  a halt. Tires don't screech for everyone you know. But there are times when I want to live so badly that it nearly kills me. That I want to be so alive and breathing that it knocks my lungs out. But there are times, when I just zone out; actually those moments are majority of my life. Listening without hearing, staring without watching, being without thinking. I don't know which one I rather choose, and maybe I will tell you my story sometimes in the future...

Multiple Choice
Please choose one.
a). Cadaver 6 ft underground
b). Audrey Hepburn
c). Particle of matter

Far away, fire casts a warm glow of an everlasting sunrise
the hues of oranges and red blending with the sun above
It's quite beautiful really

then closer, almost that you can smell the dead flesh
but not close enough to feel the radiation
the blues and red and orange cackle with the burnt wood
it's still beautiful, really

finally on the tip of your eyelashes, the fire softly kisses the pain in your eyes
the **** tears that wouldn't stop flowing
it's still beautiful, really