I pulled an all-nighter.
For an insomniac
That doesn't seem like
Such a great thing,
But there's a difference.
Staying up all night
Because I can't fall asleep
Is immensely different
From staying up
Because I'm trying not to sleep.
And you know that as an insomniac
I love sleep
Because it's so fleeting
Like whispers of wind
Slipping through my fingers--
Practically impossible to grasp!
And despite this...

I pulled an all-nighter
*Because I was waiting for you.

My fingertips pause
Over worn out keys
On a board that's seen
Better days, but that was years ago
When the muses were fresh,
The utterance adequate,
The language clear and precise,
The sonnets and haikus flowing
Easily from thought to tongue to finger to page.
Things have changed greatly since then.

My fingertips pause
Over worn out keys
Because some things
Are too hard to voice.
Some pains go so deep in my soul
That not even I know they exist.
Some memories so old
Of a childhood first snow
Or teenage habitual mistake
Or adolescent innocent fantasy
Have faded to a sepia-tone
Not able to be conveyed on paper.
Some experiences too personal
That sharing would ruin them forever
Because no one else could fully appreciate
What it means
To me
In my life,
Both past and future.

So silence descends
As my fingertips pause
Over worn out keys
On a board that's seen
Better days.

For how do I type out a poem
When keys have gone missing,
Like some of the pieces of my soul?

As a child, I have always had a sense of love towards the rain
Its smell, sound and feeling engraved inside my sole being
Yet a single drop and the streets are but streetlights and dull colored umbrellas
and I'd wonder, why are people so afraid of dark skies?
Until I realized, for humans, it is okay to stray away from those who need you most when the clouds above them are an ill colored grey
but if the sky above me has days where the sun can't be found
And it needs to cry,
Then it should
because most times my heart beats like thunder,
My veins look like lighting,
And it begins to pour rain
And so I've realized, if I were a form of nature
who pushes people away
I'd probably be a category 5 Hurricane
With a six page newspaper spread

You promised
f o r e v e r ,




                                 *Your definition of              
                                   forever was a lot
                                   shorter than mine.

It is a growing issue
that the amount of metaphors
never used before by the hand of man
is decreasing significantly
and needs to be addressed soon
because the number of poets appearing
out of nowhere
is increasing exponentially
because we all want to
compare our love to the wind
forever competing
for self entitled originality
and instant gratification
until all we have left in this world
is cliche
after cliche
after cliche.
Where will we find ourselves
when we find out
all the words are taken?

Brushing lips
Fingertips
Cotton rips
Swiveled hips
Who needs relationships?