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Flesh of my flesh, you are in my care
Do not dread for filth and froth
Soap and water are your friends this day
As for every day that you are in my thoughts

Flesh of my flesh, be steady, and clutch strong
Do not let the sudden shifts of climate upset you
By pesters of sunbeams and teases of raindrops
May the advantage of garment escort you

Flesh of my flesh, what has gone wrong?
You are turning to be faint and lean each day
Did the accident in the pool have something to do
With why the hue of your vigor is fading away?

Flesh of my flesh, I have feared these times
I am right to say that you are now a cut on my skin
But as more days traverse and hours make dates
My wound became a scar, a reminder of my regrets herein

Flesh of my flesh, I can never bring back
Those times of sweet perfection that we once had
If I could just…No…that won't work too
I am as remorseful now as I am sad

Flesh of my flesh, don't be so stiff on us both
My past is already filled with great anxiety
I would just as be pleased for our hostilities to end
Do your share, now, and find some heartfelt sympathy

Flesh of my flesh, then so it must be?
You have resolved to part ways, and I won't hold back
If that is what you wish then I'm happy for you
The time has come for reality to return to its track

Flesh of my flesh, as you wink a "goodbye"
Do not forget the strong words, the distinct taps, and sights
There is deep roots unearthed and replanted elsewhere in time
May rest find you in darkness, and may peace greet you in light
I. I cannot seem to picture holes in my body like most
people do. That popular metaphor they use to represent
loss. I think of those cardboard boxes that come in different
shapes, displayed in bookstores. Those you don't especially
need but feel like walking away with like they've
always been yours. One resembles an emptied
pool, another like a cake eaten so carefully, the sponge
remains barely intact, imitating a box. And yet, for some
reason, you don't want to put anything in them. They look appealing
as they are, empty. When a friend loses something, maybe a
blown-off cap, I picture a green oblong box neatly caved
in his crown, through his skull. I can't visualize a hole, or
a collapsed floorboard, nor dug-out soil. Assorted colored
boxes in odd shapes, at different locations and time, fitting
flawlessly, like an expensive upgraded sink, through people's
body parts. Sometimes I picture them with a lid on but
they're still visible: an obvious bright patch of cardboard ingrained
in someone's palm, or at one side of another's abdomen.

II. Holes, usually from gunshot, are intentionally plumbed
by nature and open till the other end. True loss, to become
irretrievable, has to have an element of reach and is then
restricted by space—tracing inevitability. You lose a phone
and you search through the rectangle case by your thigh,
and seize nothing, there's only cardboard and skin.

III. You lose someone. But an entire
box the shape of your body can't possibly replace you
or your whole skeletal system would pop out. So you imagine
that loss, an open cocoon, as a single *****—a heart, or
at least half of it. You can't tell whether that side is capable
of beating, but when you knock on it, it sounds the same. You feel that compartment in your chest and it's all solid and compact,
maybe even scratchy. You reach and your hand doesn't go
through. Of course, it never arrived like a bullet. You deliberately
chose to put something in that box. And as much as you
rather wanted to see that bright ear-shaped box empty, leaving
it's contents to imagination, you compromised, thinking
half a heart wouldn't take too much space. And losing
that person, you think back on the day you first got the
box. It was never meant to be filled, you imagine. It looked
better on a shelf behind glass among other colored boxes:
firm as new and all equally fragile, maybe even
bearing a scent or taste. I believe this is one way to cope with loss,
by disassociating it—turning it into a pretty spectacle you'd want to
buy but don't, just another section one passes in a mall.
Hit me hard and break my heart into a million pieces
Cause only then will you see how much its worth
Don't settle for a dozen scraps, a hundred, or a thousand
Strike with passion and leave a mess upon the earth

Then watch me as I pick up every piece that was scattered,
From the loftiest clouds they perched, and crevices they slipped
Now take them from my hand and hold it in yours all together
And feel the weight of the million pieces that you had ripped

I want you to see how they still mold and form the same original shape
How a million pieces could be reattached and still reveal a heart
Yet, do not mistake their lightness for instability or lack of focus
They can also be diamond tough; my soul is the fortress, while it, the rampart

Its not some plastic easter egg thats only as good as its design
Not a false brittle shell, with a hollow and empty core
Each piece accounts apiece, a full apple with no worm
Every heartbreak meant to make it, love even better, than before

So if you're looking for commitment, let that be the trial
I'm not promising it'd be easy, it can only be worth the pain
It's only in shattered hearts, that subtle thoughts are brought to light
Neither the first nor the last, but I'd repeat it all the same,

*If you're the one I'm about to gain.
Some heartbreaks can be devastating. Some are harder to recover, as some pieces flung farther are tough to find. You'll eventually pick the pieces of you heart all together again, it might just take a lot of time. The purpose of this poem was to shed a more positive light on that feeling. Heartbreaks remind me how human I am. I'm a sucker for that feeling, for shrapnels in my heart.
You told me back then that its fine because its over,
And everything that happened should be all in the past.
Then why is it now, that every time we pass each other,
You'd make me feel like, that conversation was our last?

I admit that I, myself, didn't offer you my everything,
And that the chase I gave, wasn't even barely a run.
But how could I sprint, when your signs were confusing?
And the I Love You's you gave, all came out undone.

So it turns out that the rain, didn't properly end.
And puddles still form, from small drops that remain.
Those sunny skies of blue were all just make pretend;
Like parts of the weather forecast, that you failed to explain.

Second chance is a slot machine, and I'm running out of change.
So I'll drop my last coin, under the score of my name.
Because the next time we meet, either the spin goes out of range,
Or the coin comes back out, and it was all just a game.
This is actually about something thats happened to me in the past. It was when invested my heart in the wrong bank. I hope you like it :)
Maybe rainbows do come after the rain,
Yet disappear the minute I check,
And all there is that remains
Are the tracks of the storm-the wreck


Maybe the sun does rise before noon somehow
But only when I'm still inside my dreams.
Are dreams the only mediums right now
For life to become more than what it seems?


Maybe the moon does have a face up above
But turns around when I look too soon.
Does it smile because of the earth, its love,
Or by jokes from the man on the moon


Maybe stars exceed more than a billion,
Yet only few are happily ever afters.
In my case, am I a special constellation
Or just another star among the others?


Maybe right now, your staring at my direction.
Be that true, of all the daily wonders in my list.
If its in my eyes, that your gaze finds connection ,
         Will I sooner believe that miracles truly exist

*Does the look of love ever miss?
If I stood on top
Some polar planet
And looked for you
Among the traffic
Of meteor showers
And beyond that I'd see
Only vast empty space
Don't worry cause
I've not yet laid us down
For then I'd know for sure
You're just somewhere in
Illusive Earth
Perhaps sitting inside
Some cliché cafe
Stirring, brewing up
A Mocha galaxy
On your creamy latte
Listening to
Treasure Planet Soundtracks
Like that one entitled
"I'm Still Here"
But if ever you just
Suddenly get up
And leave an empty spot
In that tiny world
Inside me
Temporarily
Asking for space
In between
When there's enough around
And more above
Then I might begin
To wonder
Where at this moment
In this infinite
Zero-gravity
Could you possibly
Be drifting now
Hey there
Skater girl
You got me all twirled up inside
When you made those turns
I get goosebumps
When you swerve right by me
I'm pretty sure it was you
And not the evening chill

And yes it was late
The lampposts were on
And the traffic lights
Out of sight
Why should anyone
Tell you when to stop or go
You were an unchained thing
You had the road all for yourself
And I had that night
To see you scribble in your strides

You did ballet, not on thin ice,
But on rough pavements
For life was not always
A smooth and clear ground
It can be a lonely
Concrete street
It can be you right now
Free and astound
With me in the distance

At first glance
It'll seem like
You're free-rolling
But I know
It's really art
In its abstract form
The solid, rigid sound of wheels
Scraping ground
Is tranquilizing
To our left is a quiet parking lot
And at the right, a multipurpose home
While I'm sitting on grass
In a suit

Please don't mind me
And keep on skating
Skater girl
Doodle me a way
Map me a dance
With the tracks of your skates
In this fast-rolling world
I don't know if I love her.
She is absent and unaware.
I have partially opened my heart.
Do I love something not even there?

I know that I love her.
She is present but unaware.
A keyhole divides where my heart is concerned.
I am in love and the world looks fair.

I know that I love her.
She is present and is somewhat aware.
Chances are my luck will turn better.
Does she know that I am someone who cares?

I know that I love her.
She is aware but makes no move.
Is my love creaking softly that she is unmindful?
Are there truths that I still have yet to prove?

I question myself if I still love her.
She remains heedless of what she knows.
I am knocking at the other side of a bolted door.
I will walk the path where only time flows.

My heart now knows what my brain knew first.
She is now gone and free from a passing rumor.
I still stand upon where I was to give my heart.
If only she had turned that second **** better.
Ever heard the song 'Love is an open door'? If you watched 'Frozen' then you probably would. This poem was pretty much similar to that. Though I wrote this way before 'Frozen' even aired, I still feel amazed of the resemblance.
Love can sometimes be like a door. Even when a door is closed, beyond that we can still hear whats going on behind it, meaning, we can still have a connection to what's behind a closed door. Love can be invisible, but still present all together. It can come slowly in the form of a crush. A small attraction can then lead to a greater emotion until we realize that were already in love. But a door can shut back the same way they can be opened up. And wind-winds of fate-can as easily close them again once they are opened. But there isn't only one door that exists in our world. Many others could appear in the most unexpected corners within the residence of our lives. We just have to be patient and take the time to look for them.
Opening and closing doors is normal. Doors with locks though, can take a little more effort.
My head falls deep into
Her shoulders, gently,
As she would not need to nudge.

My Arm finds its place around her back,
Stalking in good terms,
I lean and feel receptive touch.

I feel as though
My approach was out of place.
My hand throttles back, firmly, But in fluid grace.
I put it out in winter soft,
That she might not resort to sob.
I prepare to leave my seat as if told,
Remarking her that it was out of love
Do you remember that cliche scene in movies when a guy asks a girl to watch a movie, and when they sit together, the camera focuses on the guy as he attempts to make "the first move" and puts his arm around the back of the girl's seat...and he fails
-this is pretty much what the poem's all about
The books you carry are so expressive
Some pages have those obvious gaps
That show even when the book is closed
They point put the places you've reread
Over and over again
Or the pages you've kept open for too long

Some have plastic covers, while others, leather wraps
Which to me hint favoritism
Or the pricelessness of your literary artifacts
While some don't even have covers anymore
But thats okay, cause with you,
The books don't ever have to feel cold

Some have bookmarks you've bought in the past
Cause you thought they were cute or had a nice quote
While other bookmarks you've made yourself
Out of cut-out folders, and sticky notes
And some have strings, while others don't

Some pages have highlights along the text
Maybe of lines you want to remember
Or of moments you want to feel again
Of places you want to visit in the future
Or of words you have yet to comprehend

Some areas have spills and stains
Perhaps from drinks that refreshed you
As you flipped through page by page
While some look like tear drops
From when characters rode with you
But left to catch some other train
Or maybe you just fell asleep reading
And it could have been just the rain

The books you carry are so expressive
Some titles are familiar, while others new
And I just can't help but wonder
How they all seem to be a reflection of you
I ponder now, to the years ago,
To what came on every Christmas Eve.
About the gift that I could get,
The perfect gift to have or to receive.

I was only seven, many fleeting years ago,
And I loved all kinds of dessert.
So then, to get the perfect gift,
A chocolate cake was all its worth.

I was asked at 12 to choose my gift
And a new typewriter was all I said.
At a time when technology had once been young,
I was pleased with mine, a branded crimson red.

12 more years passed by and I could not find
A better gift than what I got years ago in my life.
At 40, I celebrate the 8th anniversary
Of the lovey-dovey years I that I spent with my wife.

I'm 55 and weeping, for now both my parents are gone.
My dad just died a week ago, at the ripe age of 83.
If time was a gift, I'd give it to those I love.
Christmas just isn't as complete as it used to be.

It's Christmas yet I'm dying, and loved-ones use the tongue of tears.
My final wish would only be to have my whole life encoded in memory;
For memories are all that I can leave, and all that I could bring,
From all the blessed 86 years-God's own Christmas gift to me.
I tried to make the structure look like a Christmas tree, but it wasn't that easy as I thought. Happy Holidays :)
I'm leaving work much earlier today
My wife called and gave the grievous news
It's my little boy, my inquisitive lad
His curiosity had gotten too loose

It's the Christmas tree, most likely the new,
The one that took a year of savings to buy
Our son, she said, had altered the Christmas tree
My little angel of a boy, oh why?

Poor Christmas tree, I fear the sight
The Christmas ball switched to pieces of chess
The light modified to spaghetti strips
My savings worth had become a hideous mess

With shoes as hanging decors, and the branches cut,
And the yellow star tainted with black and white paint
No wonder my wife relayed in a calmly voice when,
She mentioned he had used every single kind of paint

In front of the house, I open the door
Time for me to see the turmoils of war
"Where is it?", I ask, with a tear dropping out.
What could a six year old boy do at his age so far?

"Oh honey, you came home early!", she exclaimed
Is she ready to see her grown husband faint?
"Our son, changed the Christmas tree, like I said."
"Well of course, I only let him use MS paint."
She wore an olive fleece
He wore a beige corduroy
She was a princess in sneakers
He was a modern man of Troy

(But their coats were merely frames
Their shirts were exactly the same)

She brought home brewed coffee
He sipped lukewarm cocoa
She was chained to yesterday
He was impatient for tomorrow

She sat on the stone slab
He laid down with arms tied
She was to the left of him
He was right beside

She took pictures of the lake
He stared into the sky
She carried a small knapsack
He held a lost goodbye

While around them,
Two lovers flirted from afar
A middle aged man sat alone
A mom and dad spoiled their kids
A group of students headed home

Yet, the two remained there
On that grassy concrete brick
Sharing a single tiny shade
Repeating the same old tune
All they did that afternoon
A moment they had played
That'll only be a memory soon
I'm terrified of traveling along any major body of water
I feel uncomfortable imagining how low a rock could sink

Yet I don't mind flying against the skies above the clouds
I'm curious as to how high birds could lift their wings

And yet I know that oceans and seas have a bottom floor
While the darker blue of the sky is too vast to have bounds

So maybe I just like places that don't act as cages
And I fear the things that I'll eventually come around
A woman, through a man’s eye, should be seen as a flower.
Like a flower, a woman bears grace and various beauties.
The kind wind breathes into them life and delicate splendor.
A woman hides her pride and a flower keeps its duties.

They are rather chiefs of their jobs and champion of their games.
Both influence, by respects, the entirety of the earth.
Better than trophies in shelves and certificates in frames:
They are gifts from God; breathes life- one’s of man’s rib-within dirt.

So, with that, such creation would draw love under man’s gaze-
Love that would urge a man to have possession of such jewel.
But, pick a flower and it will die, in either ways
And she will cease to be what he loves, and him, as luck’s fool

Love, for women or for all, is not about possession,
To who or what- Love must be about appreciation
A school homework...a sonnet

— The End —