She was
unsinkable,
or so they thought.
Woods fired, engines chugged,
they sailed her West in fair majestic pride
unknowing of a tragic ending, a harrowing recollection.
In a blink of an eye, she collided with a tip of the ice, a thousand lives and more swallowed by angry tides,
cries of mercy resonating, woes fading into the familiar shuttered countenance, one by one.
Debris floating back and forth, a horrifying spectacle of bodies buoyant, breathless,
as salty waters sing a lullaby, consoling souls from a sudden departure.
The Ship of Dreams, The Unsinkable, in all her vainglory
a grand exit on her first and final journey, but not
before a farewell kiss pressed on her lips—
She, in a trance, breath withdrawn,
her limbs weak and weary.
Slowly she plunged
but not before
looking back
one last
time.
Feb 3, 2024
Feb 3, 2024 at 1:50 PM UTC
Not odd nor bizarre
Not different, or god forbid, strange
Not quite unusual or irregular
Neither twisted nor morbid
Never disgusting but queer.
Bruised, but still, beautiful
Scarred but steadfast
Resolute and radiant
Free.
Explosive.
Human.
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 5:44 AM UTC
morning light spills upwards from the horizon,
salt lingers in thin air
tangerine skies watch over as we take the road
filled with anticipation
we turn the stereo on
sing to our favorite song—
there is no other way to escape
but this—
you, me, the road and the wind
brushing against our skin.
we pack our bags,
wrap our soap bars
spray our favorite perfume,
laughing as we peek inside each other’s purses
like Pandora’s box
wondering what else to try—
yellow sunglasses, ball caps
an oddly familiar feeling
like rummaging a newly-cleaned closet.
wind-blown and sun-kissed,
we take the path to paradise
in bikinis pastel and printed
hair braided,
glare of sunshine touching our faces
building memories from scratch—
nothing but the sand and the shore
and the splash of the waves
against the grainy surface.
your head rests on my shoulders
as we watch the daylight fading—
hues of pink, orange, purple, and blue
painted on the sky by an invisible hand
thinking there is no goodbye as beautiful as this.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 5:06 AM UTC
They were children tasting sugar
For the first time
Without all the artificial layers
The raw sweetness
Making them gasp and shiver
Anticipating for more
Turning them into wild animals
Ravaging its meal
Showing their true identities
Buried in these colors
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 3:27 AM UTC
just one night
let me run away
to where I could feel
utmost freedom
to where I could be
a faceless stranger.
just one night
to feel the wind brushing
against my skin
to lay on the grass
and stare at the astral sky.
just one night
with a familiar face
fingers intertwined
dancing under the lamplight
flickering, catching a common rhythm
one tap after the other.
just one night
of never having to feel
the apathy wrestling
inside of me believing
it would never matter
so long as I am free.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
metaphors, they lie
we are made to believe there is meaning
beneath every symbol we try
to decipher—
the door is red, it expresses anger
I wore the red but I am empty
as I try to grasp the reality
I am alone and bathed in shame
flicking switches on and off
in the bathroom
soaking blood-stained sheets
blood is death
death is rather colorless—
a starless sky
a vacuum.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 2:48 AM UTC
below is a bed of asphalt, surveyed
by a creature covered
not in velvet, nor in silk flaunting
in muted strut
deafening silence
preparing for hunt or coming home
no one knows.
illuminated, the creature casts a shadow
against the grainy surface
bleak, distorted reflection
that mocks you with its
empty mercurial gaze
like a soul trapped in ebony cage
an empty space, a vacuum.
the absence of light is darkness
darkness is haunting
light in itself is haunting
the umbra, an illusion
of a phantom in the middle of the night
perplexed by reality and apparition intertwined
if curiosity kills, I bet the nine lives.
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 4:16 AM UTC
Your scars arent beautiful,
theres no beauty in hurting yourself
no beauty in blades
no beauty in throwing up your food
no beauty in mascara running from your eyes at 2 am
no beauty in eyes that are dead
nobody will kiss your scars
i'm sorry for that.
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 1:14 AM UTC
You always wanted things exquisite
So I made a pair of wings out of wax
In hopes of reaching you
But I must have forgotten you were the sun
I flew too close only to find myself
Crashing down to my own demise.
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 11:28 PM UTC
Forgetting is an act of human will
An animal does not forget the scent of a blood trail
Nor the track of lightning through the trees
It’s the smell of survival
The sound of another day existing.
What is thicker than water
But the blood of our brothers and sisters
Who had forgotten too soon how
We were weaved into a common thread?
The bloodline we shared, forgotten, taken in vain
They have conquered from us the land of our ancestors
Centuries old, stories left untold
They shoved the life out of us
Leaving us indelible marks of shame.
Forgetting is an act of human will
But we have not forgotten how to blame
So we blamed the gods,
We blamed our fathers and the fathers of their fathers
We blamed the books
We blamed the espresso machine
We blamed all that was to blame
We blamed because we were helpless.
Forgetting is an act of human will
But we remember. We do remember how we spoke
To faces with perfect set of teeth
They showed us the rooms of dark wood floors
They stood on the doorway. They moved when our
Eyes passed them. Showing us one corner
Like every other corner.
They showed us how to turn on the water,
Where the light switches are,
Which door would lead to another.
They took our money. They smiled.
“Here is my face,” they always said.
Some hollow, some swollen, some sagging
Flesh and bones. “You will know me by this face.”
Forgetting is an act of human will
But we remember how we mastered the language
Of the wild
A jungle with no trees, they call it “metropolis”
Where streetlamps shone brighter than the stars,
Where shadows aren’t made of animals
Meant for bedtime stories
Where men’s faces, pink and stained
With camouflage, shined with the sweat of the hunt
Their dogs knew us by our accents
The plight wasn’t over after all.
Forgetting is an act of human will
But we chose to remember
We’ll never forget.
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 10:55 PM UTC