Isrella Uong

Isrella Uong Nov 2017

The things I say when I pray for you
are the realest things you’ve never heard me say;
the things I proclaim when I rebuke the things of you
are the most forthright sentences that’ve ever come out of my mouth.
But when I speak to you, I say useless things,
because the realest things are left unsaid, only said in my prayers.

When I proclaim truths on you, when I proclaim truths about you,
I, myself, can’t comprehend what I’m saying;
I just let my mind be guided and directed.
But the words spoken and prayed, they never leave my secrecy.

Then again, I won’t let you in this close,
because you, yourself, are closed in;
you are closed in and your exterior is as rough to the touch as sand paper,
and you won’t open yourself up to the things I pray when I pray for you.
You won’t expose yourself to certain truths that I know,
more than you do, about you; you don’t want to.

You think they’re irrelevant, the revelations I receive,
you don’t want to hear them. But if you do,
you won’t acknowledge them; you don’t want to.
How then can I speak my mind about issues if I’m so afraid that it’ll make you blue?

How pointless it is, to pray for you but to not be able to share words of encouragement
about issues that you don’t want to acknowledge;
to not be able to walk with you through them.
I restrain my words and end up babbling about nonsense
each time you pick up the phone; two to three to four hours wasted
on arguing who has better spiritual discernment.

I don’t want it to be this way, I want to pray
out loud with you, and not be afraid of your judgement.
I want my words of wisdom to flow out naturally,
because, truly, I’m tired of cutting edges in the manners I try to not offend you.

I know you’ve got resentment;
please don’t look at me like this, seek to see my true identity.
I’m a light, I shine bright and cast out the darkness
with the light that lives in me.
I’m a warrior of love and an ambassador of the beacon of hope
that this world has yet to recognize.

And you’re just like me, co-heirs in this heritage;
so why must we go to war against each other like this?
Why must we let our pride get in the way of fruitful discussions?
This is not the right battle, this is not what we’re supposed to do.

Our battle isn’t against flesh and blood,
that is why I still pray for you.
I hope you’ll see me the way he sees me; precious and valuable.
But above all, I pray that one day I’ll be able to say
the realest things and proclaim the most forthright sentences
without being afraid of you.

November 14, 2017. I was sick of spiritually investing and fighting for people, because I felt like they don’t ever take in account my sanctified words.

#pray #discernment #flesh #blood

Isrella Uong Nov 2017

This.

It’s something I miss.
But I don’t like this.
So, correct me if I’m wrong,
But the flow has dried.
It’s been a long time like this.

And I hate this.
Words come from experiences,
But we’ve got nothing left to live,
Nothing left to say;
Dried up like sun kisses on wet skin.
All the missiles I missed,
You were the one shooting them.

This is so useless.
But I miss this.
And I miss it so much,
I could cry 20 thousand diamonds
Just to try to convince you that I don’t.

My heart is aching like it’s been shot,
And none has missed.
You won’t understand this, you won’t.
But I’m used to this,
Being taken for granted
Like I’ll always be there
When you don’t need me the most.

I’m having more fun,
A better thrill without
Your relentless changing faces.
I’m having a better time
Speaking to other faces.
I’m not worth your time,
No matter what your pace is.

I’m like a miss, standing,
Waiting to be announced
Queen of something,
Only to be found unworthy of titles
And golden bracelets.

These are my broken pieces.
Try to understand this
Text, because this is the only way
I could ever freely express my distress
Without sounding like other misses.

Now, I don’t like this.
But it’s something I miss.
So, correct me if I’m wrong,
But our rivers have dried.
It’s been a long time like this.

October 3, 2017. I missed the way certain things used to be.

#this #miss #misses #shot #missiles

Isrella Uong Nov 2017

Graffiti on My Empire

Something so pure,
So emotionally binding,
Turned into unspeakable violence.
And although it was coerced into pleasure,
It felt like torture;
I couldn’t speak, yet I destroyed the silence.

Because it loved it.
If it loved it and I hated it,
I wanted to say that I had its last words,
But I tumbled in a feeling of guilt.

Because it loved it.
Because it enjoyed it.
Because it screamed for it,
Despite my continuous suffocated roars for scissors:
A plea for those two blades to cut the ligature;
It would’ve been a higher thrill than graffiti on my empire.

Leagues of leaking and leaking…
I can still breathe low, but I feel violated,
Like it’s taken a part of my alliance,
Like it’d climbed up my echelon.

If this isn’t transgression,
Than tell my soul to drown in
Someone else’s “take out, take in,”
Because I can’t take in its terrain.
It is what there is, there’s only emptiness to gain.
Did it really have to occur?

I stand in the shower
Rubbing my skin of its filth and the desires
Imprinted on my exterior in a forceful manner,
To the point where my extensions
Are the ones soaked in blood…
A blood that I hope to be a metaphor,
Not seen by my sight, but more so like a coverup;
A mending medicine that will keep my body from bleeding
All the sins committed against my entity.
It is said, and it must be true, I need healing.
I haven’t forgiven the violation of this past silhouette;
Yet, I’ve forgiven everything else.

September 2, 2017. One of my sisters has been ***** before. I wanted to write about it, but I know very well that, not having been through this sort of experience, I do not have a complete understanding of it. Therefore, this text might lack in personal touches.

#**** #violence #blood

Isrella Uong Nov 2017

I Want to Feel Them

I’ve got this friend,
He’s sharp, terse, let’s-get-to-the-point-and-move-on.
His answers are always brief, but precise and structured.
Sometimes, I look at him and see a list of pros and cons;
Sometimes, I look at him and think that he’s not too far gone;
He’s not far gone enough.

He doesn’t understand,
What are the uses of over-spilling words.
When I dwell, maybe too far gone, on metaphors.
My mind drives me to thoughts of consensual wild turns;
My mind drives me to creations of sensorial patterns;
I’m far gone enough.

He never overextends,
What are the uses of prolonged lines and blurred feelings.
When I stay, maybe too long gone, to revive emotions.
Memories I don’t hold on to, I just appreciate their ways of fleeting;
Memories I don’t hold on to, I memorize their departures, leaving;
They’re long gone enough.

He can’t comprehend,
Why is it that I have so much to say about such little matters.
What I breathe, maybe two lights on, it sends me into paradoxical dreams.
When I dream about someone else with the same longings and flavors;
When I dream about how they could taste the compatibility of characters;
I keep two lights on, and that’s enough.

No, he doesn’t understand,
Because he doesn’t let his mind wander like I do.
He is focused on the things beneath his eyes and feet.
When he speaks, no stutter can be found, he leaves no questionable clues;
When he speaks, no confusion can be found, perfect interview;
He’s not far gone enough.

He doesn’t apprehend,
The nonrepresentational reasons I try to present to him.
But, he still takes a glimpse of his time to read my hands.
Sometimes, the clarity of his coherence inspires my hymns;
Sometimes, the confusion of his clarity advocates the rhymes I trim;
His unversed habits are far too long gone, they weren’t enough.

Now, he might not understand,
But I hope that one day he will.
Not too far gone;
Not too long gone;
Not two lights on;
Not far too long gone…
Just for him to comprehend one teaspoon sip from my overdose of excitement;
Just for him to be on the receiving end of one drop from the seas of my sentiments.
“I don’t want to write my emotions; I want to feel them.”

October 30, 2017. This poem was written for a friend of mine who’s very different from me. He doesn’t understand why I feel so much; he doesn’t, but he wants to.

#feelings #desire #understand

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