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May 2018 · 412
2
Isrella Uong May 2018
2
I would give everything
Just to go back in time
Her body laying next to mine
We’d chant melodies and sing
We’d sing harmonies in sync
We’d sink poetry with 2 minds
2 minds born to cry
Hey body by my side
She’d hear my sound mind
My mind full of sounds for her
For an old friend of mine.
Feb 2018 · 350
so easily
Isrella Uong Feb 2018
some seem so easy to fall for
some seem so hard to fall for
why do i always seem to fall for
those who seem so hard to fall for
but so easily
?
February 18, 2018. Why.
Feb 2018 · 443
Ou’s so typical
Isrella Uong Feb 2018
When words can’t say what you want them to
when your failures resound an anthem or two
I find your tongues more appealing than news
about the location of other phantoms or blues

When lines don’t line up the way I want them to
when I’m left heart-shattered at the peak of noon
Interrogation starts on our quarrelsome revenue
turning into May – is this a “hickie or a bruise”?

But may I ask you – not that I may not – I do
want to know – is this a “hickie or a bruise”?
Is it love is it a fight we put up because I blew
up all the sadness in your discs of jazzy blues?

But may I add to your sorrow a pinch of red hue?
would that enable us to create baby violets in lieu
Of blue depression or red violence – I want you
but wouldn’t choose between a hickie or a bruise

The color violet may be hard for you to value
when things suddenly emerge from the soil to
Bring forth new & renowned substantial food
it might seem like the plants speak in Hebrew

The bruises I tailored for you are hidden in the zoo
wandering preying ‘fore its attempt to ooze on you
But only when the lines line up & words overused
do they finally say my love what you want them to

The wings of butterflies let the sun shine through
now we know this is not a bruise
But a sun-kissed glow
it’s you
-
February 10, 2018. This doesn’t make any sense, even I can’t make any sense of it.
Jan 2018 · 381
smell
Isrella Uong Jan 2018
you moved overseas
so far away from me
but before you left
you left your heart &
your sweater jacket for
me to keep in my arms
when i sleep – or can’t

there are times when
you find it difficult to
speak so i tell you to
simply breathe in and
out as i hear you fall
asleep on the phone &
hug that heart of yours

other moments we’d
share snapshots of our
best & worst moments
but those are just images
photographs in 2d not 3
so the only way to give
life to them is by smell

you spray my presents
with the scent of your
cologne for me to feel
a little closer to you
to feel as though i’m
in the same room as
your warmest smile

lately you have been
busier than ever but
never too busy for me
aren’t you a little crazy
to go against dramatic
time zones just to talk
instead of sleeping

it’s okay gentleman
i don’t need constant
words flooding in and
out of our message box
your smell is enough &
rooted in my memory
and i’m reminded that

you’re more than a
pretty boy trying to
get all the girls into
your green backyard
you have a light on the
fingertips of the ways
you speak intentions

but i thank you all the
same for keeping your
green backyard green
maybe one day i’ll be
the one to enter in it
but for now you should
keep sending me scents
January 2, 2018. I love his smell.
Dec 2017 · 519
stone Cold
Isrella Uong Dec 2017
I was warm
always warm
I tried to make you laugh
i couldn’t make you cry
No tear would melt
from your ice cube eyes
Because you’re cold –
you weren’t always cold
I didn’t know how
to pierce through your stone
I wasn’t sharp
not sharp enough
But i thought i had
an instrument sharp enough
I then knew that my warmth
couldn’t melt through stone
But maybe it could’ve
at least melted your ice
Surface sigh
they say that fire melts ice
So maybe warmth
could overthrow frosty snow
But i guess i was wrong
to even test your cold
Because maybe fire is
capable of melting ice
But that doesn’t mean that
warmth can overthrow cold
Try to picture this image
i’d like to color – in white
If you place a vulnerable warmth
on an iceland of snow
Surely the blizzard wind
will suffocate the warmth and
The warmth will become cold  
– this feels like a retelling
Now i’ve grown cold
towards your distant show
There’s nothing growing
on our trail covered with snow
I was a fire but now i’m cold
and you remained this way
Now both of our hearts
are cold towards each other
Because it’s elemental
this glassy window
From which i can see
the other side – there you are
But it’s blocking me
from getting closer to you
Maybe because i’m still
a little bit warm & sunny
But our trail of snow
has been blocked by the window
Now i’ve become distant
towards your photo
Like an unreachable memory
too blazing to unfold
Nostalgia for the warmth
we once had for each other
But now our hearts have
grown cold towards each other
Because you said & i said
that we must guard our hearts
December 14, 2017. “[I] Don’t wanna be stone cold […].”
Dec 2017 · 740
Your Jacket
Isrella Uong Dec 2017
you’ve got the most delicate hands
i’ve ever felt on my inner chest.
i’m breaking apart,
completely shattering to pieces;
it might be a release, it might bring me peace,
bits & pieces, put them back together.
my legs are shaking from the cold;
you passed me your jacket.
but, this is no ordinary jacket,
it’s like a band-aid wrapped around my soul.
and maybe for a moment or a glimpse,
i let go of the past and thought,
“maybe it won’t hurt this time.”
but, i’m still shattered
and breaking to bits & pieces;
i’m breaking apart,
maybe so that i can be put back together…
properly, so that i can birth out nations & stories.
no matter how much this hurts,
no matter how much my heart is aching,
the sound is echoing,
“i want to know you more.”
i freaking want to know you more!
should i surrender?
is it even possible for me to surrender?
you can see through my skin,
you know that it’s like a storm within.
but all it takes is a hurricane –
you’re that hurricane –
to overthrow me.
is that too much to ask for?
can you shake me?
can you slap me out of this?
slap me out of my skin!
but you said, “no, i’ll do this gently.”
are you gonna tell me that it takes time?
i know you say i’ll be fine,
as long as i’m wearing the soul jacket.
ugh! surrender. surrender. surrender.
you said, “healing takes time.”
sometimes the truth hurts more than the lie,
but do i want to be lied to?
the truth doesn’t hurt!
because change is necessary.
and what i’ve dug myself into,
i know you’ll drag me out of my pity hole.
“stop hiding your heartburns and
the holes ******* in your heart.”
soul jacket, this is one heck of a special jacket!
feels like protection.
it feels better than muscular arms around my waist
from a guy who’s three-four years older;
feels better than beer chugged down
trying to pass for stronger liquor;
feels better than trying to numb myself
with “don’t make me sad / don’t make me cry.”
don’t get me wrong, i still love the song born to die.
but maybe this time,
i’ll have to cross out that line;
and instead i’ll write:
“born to thrive.”
because that’s how your jacket makes me feel.
December 9, 2017. Yeah, jackets are great.
Nov 2017 · 247
Untitled
Isrella Uong Nov 2017
¿if you say you love me
how then can you treat me so poorly?
Nov 2017 · 409
When I Pray for You
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.
Nov 2017 · 480
This.
Isrella Uong Nov 2017
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.
Nov 2017 · 418
Graffiti on My Empire
Isrella Uong Nov 2017
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.
Nov 2017 · 364
I Want to Feel Them
Isrella Uong Nov 2017
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.

— The End —