Despair within me grows like a tree by the water.
Be okay on the outside
Because I am. I'm "okay" to the people
Nothing physical yet.
In fact nothing left.
I am alone in this cruel world.
I talk but no one listens.
And when they do, I get laughed at.
Depression? they say, your just sad right now, it will go away.
But it doesn't, lurking around every corner, creeping after me in my own body and mind.
So I don't speak. Not anymore
Expect nothing and feel no pain when the pain comes again.
Silence within me like a cancer grows.
Silence to meet silence

Did you know that every time he searched your eyes,
While he pushed deep-
That his emotions passion and lust was equivalent to her?
For every time he traced his finger tip down your spine;
your hands grasped to cover more surface.
Cotton.
Polyester.
Satin,
as you braced for smooth impact.
He only understood the similar love language he shared with her.
With you-
craving of possessive feelings,
Proving your worth to him
asking for time via a clock whom hands couldn’t unwind
Separate.
Disintegrate.
A Minaj a trios-
unbeknownst to you existed,
Co-starring you
For every soft connection within each curve...
Your identity was a reflection of another.
For all the things you projected
Marriage.
House.
Dog.
Children.
His capability of taking you to ecstasy,
Lead you here
Had you any clue?
This little game called life,
Excluded the other woman (you).

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

after
the
rain
a butterfly
landed
upon
a pink ash rose
to feast on
the
sweet nectar
then
open its
wings of glory
the
fresh color of
black and orange tiger stripes
fluttered all about

you are like bruises on my lips
when you stopped talking to me
i started to wear my scars like metal
like heavy stones and cold-short iron
every time i looked  up all i saw was the way
you touched my nails

i thought my brain
was coloured in pastel blue
last night i forgot the contour of
your face and i almost felt insane
i thought i was drunk but
everyone kept calling it sadness

my pulse was swimming in my knee caps
my eyes was on fire when you
said my name
he is like bruises on my body
leaving splodges on my mind like
i was made of ashes
he is like poetry
leaving bruises wherever he can