I refuse to change, to become equal with the whores in the street
Who do anything for a one night stand or the touch of a man
I cannot force you to feel what is not there for you
but I will not cave, I will not drown
You are my safety, my pleasure, my love
I am your insecurity, your pain, your friend
You've promised so much, yet given so little
Like the politicians who only want their people to be happy,
You feel pressured and lonely, when I have already promised you my loyalty
My addiction is spelled out in iron:
Words have been stomped into my fate by elegantly gargantuan feet of Greek goddesses and
in the metal lies every pretentious metaphor and ink-soul-splatter that will define the rest of my existence.
There is no going back
The poetry is here to stay.
the changes the letters have wrought are now normal.
I have become used to looking in the mirror and seeing none of my features for the quotes clumped across my forehead
knotted around the contours of my cheekbones.
My morning coffee will never again just be caffeine and warmth,
but a complex metaphor for love-("being burnt by what you also cannot live without").
Now, I only know what my soul looks like
after it has been typed into pretentious metaphors
and ever since that shivering Thursday afternoon I first picked up a pen-
I look at the whiteboard and cannot absorb the continuing inadequacies of various white men because the stanzas are scattered too thickly across my vision.
But I have adjusted.
I accept that every chemical reaction my brain sets off will have words, a story, line breaks, and lonely Friday nights spent editing my soul into prettier pieces
Editing poems and homework will forever struggle against each other on my priority list
And there is simply no denying the fact that behind everything is words and in front and after there are letters and when glancing sideways and upside down you will find quotes and little sayings and poems,
but it is all perfectly fine.
I will breath in each linguistically-caused tragedy with grace and gentleness
because words are the only way I feel at home in this madly spinning world.
I have never felt cozier snuggled with any human or bed than when I am nestled in the dips and dots and curves of language.
"So," you ask, "what seems to be the downside?"
well, dear reader;
if we are being honest poems aren't real therapists.
and they lend themselves well to madness and isolation
But I cannot bring myself to care...
If words were alcohol I would be that horrible mother they whisper about at the PTA meetings who comes home after work and chugs biccardi on the couch, ignoring her children as she runs around the house screaming and throwing things descending into a state of such lovely and intoxicating madness that she cannot resist another page, another pen, another shot.
If words were meth instead of meth sores I have little holes all over my organs where I have drilled down as deeply as possible, hunting for even the smallest hint of feeling just so I can lovingly string letters together like pearls and polish them until they shine with the brilliant lights of tragedy and love and hate and sadness and nostalgia and anger and lust and frustration-
all of these chemicals we fuel our pens with
because numbness is not an option.
I engage in this substance abuse because I am bloated with so much longing, filled with a desperate ache for all the beautiful things I have not yet experienced,
for those brightly lit 2ams and screaming laughter and being drunk and high and kissing and yelling and the because in this moment we are young and alive and breathing and crossing lines and who gives a shit about anything else?
I write in half-crazed scribbles, wondering,
"Maybe writing about friends and laughter at 1 in the morning as I am surrounded by only netflix and tumblr will make me feel better?"
I am always wrong.
It only makes it worse.
My words are glorious escape and icy blades of stark reality.
Clarity and obfuscation.
Pancreas-cracking pain and model-tall joy.
So if words cause me to ache, beat the world into pieces, sob, and ignore my responsibilities,
why am I so goddamn in love with them?
Because my words are mad
but people are too-
so one cannot look down their poorly-described noses at poems and smugly snort that it "doesn't make any sense"
as if they have brilliantly solved and debunked an art form.
They would be quite wrong.
The words are just a reaction and reflection of the world their letters were conceived in-
and so this fevered world and the expression of its insanity are inextricably linked.
(at least for poets).
the difference between poems and people is that humans are
in addition to the insanity,
horribly unreliable and capricious creatures.
They never stay.
They never stay
But metaphors will always be there to cuddle me in their warm arms on lonely weekend nights
Why writing? you ask?
Because when everyone is gone, annoyed, asleep, or dead and the whole earth has been blown apart;
every city destroyed and great moment reduced to nothingness,
I can still trace poems in the ashes.
I'm tired of going to school every day with a smile on.
I'm tired of having nobody I can count on.
I'm tired of the people I need most not being there
I'm just so tired.....
I wanna lock my self away and just sleep sleep and sleep and never wake up......
From place to place they take us
From worlds to worlds we ferry, from people
They take many shapes, many sizes, many names, many forms
Through summer through winter they storm
Through beauty through art, through existence they build
The fondest of memories
The saddest of roads
Their flaws we fix and their mistakes we forgive and their little extra love
we appreciate -
it took me two years and a second boyfriend
to fully get over you, but your photos no longer
bother me and you even have a new girlfriend
which didn't faze me at all, all the silly things
i said still make me cringe, but for the most
part I'm glad it has been proven that people
who loved can talk like normal
gives me hope about talking to other people.
"Hola mi amigo”
That is how they greed us
in the states,
but don’t blame them,
because we are the Latino’s lost twin
Just make sure next time,
they say “Kaselehlie.”
Don’t let them judge the book by its cover,
tell them that within the book,
We have our own identity
We are the proud people of Pohnpei
We are one of many islands
Scattered across the Pacific
In your eyes
We are midnight stars during daylight
But once you get close
You’ll see how bright
Sweet perfumes of island flora
Pouring though your nostrils
Sweet harmonies of birds
Pouring through your ears
Reflections of the sunset
Glittering on top of the ocean
Like diamonds beneath the sunlight
We are coconut milk
Pouring onto breadfruits and fish
Bloodshed of pigs
On banana leaves
We are pig meats
Heated beneath flaming rocks
We are kava roots
Pounded on a flat stone
We are five kings
Competing for power
We are grandmothers
Telling her kids
Stories about our ancestors
We are kids
Gathering in circle
To tell riddles
And playing tag
Under the rain
We are one-
And when the rain
Falls on a sunny day
We understands that
One of us is at peace.
We don’t have any museums
But we see our history through
We don’t have any towers
But we see our lands
From towering mountains
We have seen them burned to ashes
But we survived
And we never left
Nan Madol - mysterious ruins in pohnpei
Kaselehlie - "hello" in pohnpei
This year alone, death has engulfed my soul
like euphoria entraps an addict.
Instead of getting high I'm falling low.
There is pain in my soul and it's not escaping any time soon.
There is a door in my brain that has been locked from the first day I understood somebody I knew died.
Somebody I loved died.
They were gone like a burst of wind we cannot chase, but feel ever so quickly.
It wasn't my grandmother.
Who at age three I loved completely.
By age four there was no more grandmother to help me keep score of life.
She was on the moon for all I knew and now I know better.
From age four to six I didn't question it.
By age seven I forgot, why my grandmother wasn't a forget me not
Why she didn't come back after she disappeared like the flowers do
I could never forgive and forget.
I could never forgive a God for taking family away from over ten little girls.
10 little girls from age three to age sixty
Mother, Sister, Cousin, Grandma, Friend
I could never forget that grandma = moon.
yet, when I look in the dark sky I find myself full of surprise when I think of her under the glow of a white orb.
I'm not so sure because
the reasons have blurred
I'm not so sure
They say white is the color of purity
It is what you see before death,
And that's what makes it frightening
And it's okay
I was young and every day carved its own way.
And I guess after one death people think it's the end, but when a man so great came to his fall my heart went down with him
My heart broke
My mouth moved, but soul never spoke.
He may have been the second death that hit me hard, but
He was the true first.
Then another man took the blunder.
Thee weeks in and he fell under under the spell of unlimited sleep
And I cried
For the injustice of leaving five kids young
And one Twelve
and (another) one (one)
My eyes were waterfalls
Yet, what I lacked to acknowledge was within every waterfall there's a rainbow.
The crystals fell creating puddles of salty pins.
They hurt to step on.
They hurt to think.
They create tiny stab wounds within my heart
Within my brain
Within my faith
They create spaces of emptiness
Spaces of freedom
that i seep from till one day I'll end
Some people say one death is the end.
I say it's the beginning
If I could honestly speak to him now
If he was here drinking a cup of coffee
In a cold French morning
I would be staring at his hands
Partially to avoid eye contact
Partially because I love those damn hands
I would speak about him in third person
And say :
Not a single compliment?
He was actually mean
In a sweet way - does it make any sense? -
I'm confused too
In fact, nobody has ever made me this confused before
Wasn't I pretty enough, smart enough?
Wasn't I pretty at all?
He never complimented me
But i fell for him
Maybe because he made me feel less lonely
In a very lonely January night
Or was it because he said good night,while i said good morning?
The same way I said goodbye to the one I loved
And was prepared to greet someone new
And God knows how much I wanted him
To be that new person
And I kept greeting him
But he wouldn't respond
I guess I should thank him
For making me discover
The taste of loving , without being loved back
It's bitter, if you ask me
Bittersweet if you're a bit of a masochist
He said stuff, sometimes
Little words that made me smile
But why did he have to take them back so quickly?
He even mentioned a girl once
Right after i told him he broke my heart
And I hated her, for existing, and for not loving him
And for having bigger boobs than mine
If i could honestly speak to him now
If he was here drinking a cup of tea
In a warm Moroccan morning
I would be staring at his hands
Partially to hide the sadness in my eyes
Partially because I love those damn hands
I would speak directly to him
And say :
Maybe you liked me
Maybe you liked me not
But you haven't allowed me to love you
You got me all confused
And I enjoyed it for a while
But I got all mad at you
For I couldn't keep myself from caring
And in case you haven't noticed
I really craved mornings spent with you
But you couldn't care less
So when an old friend offered to love me again
I just couldn't say no
And in case you pushed me away
Only because you felt insecure
I hope you learn from this
And let people love you
Because you my friend
I told you that once , right?
I said : You are wonderful
And you thought I was on drugs
I don't need to be on drugs to like you
That's the point.
I am not like you
Not the same race
Nor the same nationality
Nor the same religion
I am not like you
Not as forgiving
Nor as graceful
Nor as compassionate
But I feel a part on you inside me
Because we are both people
And I realize that now
For it is too late as you look down upon
But you realized that before
And that is what made you different
You knocked down the barriers of race
You knocked down the barriers of hate
You loved even though you were a different race
You loved even though you were supposed to hate
To you love came naturally
And naturally you walked out of hell
Took on a new world
And loved in a world
Full of hate
And never looked back
God bless the man who loved when supposed to hate
God bless the man who forgave when supposed to grudge
God bless the man who smiled when supposed to spite
God bless the man I can call my hero
Even thought I am not like you
I aspire to open my heart like you did
And fill it with beautiful, singing angels.
I came into your life at such a young age, you were only a little girl.
You had to put your youth aside to raise a little girl.
You couldn't go out drinking & partying, responsibilities came into your life.
Such as a red headed little girl.
Throughout me growing up I've seen you at your weakest points in life.
At times it effected me a lot.
& other times it helped me be strong.
To not follow your mistakes as I grew up.
There were times in our life where we bumped heads almost all the time.
I said words that shouldn't have ever came out of a mouth from daughter to mother.
I apologize for that.
I want you to know that you have been an amazing mother to me & my siblings.
We've had rough patches together as a family.
But we all managed to get through it together as a family.
I just want to thank you.
For being my mother.
For raising your kids to be the strong people we are today.
For providing everything you have in my life.
& for giving me life.
I love you lots and Happy Birthday <3