Dear Mr. Postman,

I wonder what it's like when you see the bills.
Do you feel the urge to pay them?
Or when you see college letters,
do you feel anxious to know the decision?
When we get adverts,
do you judge us?
When you see the handwritten cards,
do you also feel the sense of home?

I know you have other homes to mail,
other cubbies to fill,
but if you looked a little closer,
maybe you'll see the life of our family unfolding before your very eyes.

I forget that they switch who gets Postman for the day.
There must be a secret meeting where everyone calls dibs on which street each person gets.
I hope that you always vote to fill our street, just so you could say hi to box again.
But I can only wish for such a thing.
I want your name to always be Damian,
but the truth is it changes from Mark to Steven,
from Dana to Christine,
and from Taylor to Lennon.

Goodbye Mr. Postman,
stop by the house one day.

I Broke English
I’m trying to get better at it,
I swear I am.
I’m trying to reach my full potential,
But right now I have a fool’s potential.
It’s the only abstract thing you can break
Besides love.
And that is—
English.
My parents have broken English.
But did they have to pay for it?
Is English a vase with a price tag?
I thought that was called China for a reason?
Was English a mishandled shipment
With the label “fragile” on it?
Is English a person whose feelings have been hurt?
I thought that’s why there are therapists for him or her?

Anyways, my mom once asked me,
“How come read and read look the same?
But read and red sound the same?”
And my dad asked,
“Why is it pronounced lie-in,
Instead of lie-on?”
I always hear the saying, “I put the emphasis on the wrong syllable,”
But really, who here determines such things?

I always hear the question “Can I use the bathroom?”
Only to be hit back with “I don’t know, can you?”
Well, guess what.
May I tell you a secret?
I don’t really care, I just need to use it.

Heck, we need math to solve English.
Do we derive the root from the word?
And finally get an origin?
This plays an integral part
In our English.

People use it around the world!
Instead of hearing Bonjour! Or Hola!
We get
Hey! Hello! What’s up!
Because French isn’t universal
We don’t get to hear
“Je ne parle pas en francais”
And same for Spanish
We don’t hear
“Yo no hablo espanol”
But instead, we hear around the world
“I don’t speak very good English”
I speak
Broken
English.

Much like my broken brain
I can’t piece it together
How this dang jigsaw puzzle
Works altogether.

It’s difficult to speak in these words
Without tripping up.
Trust me it was hard to memorize,
I swear, I was all caught up
In the moment of knowing these letters.
But I didn’t take into account
The meaning of grammar—
It’s a nail that’s hard to hammer
The meaning of pronunciation—
I don’t know, can you hear my enunciation
The meaning of punctuation—
Maybe I can put an exclamation?
Or make it a question!

I finally figured out what English is.
It’s a law that I’ve broken several times
But can get away with it
Because I was born with the proper accent and the language.

Ich verstehe,
ich verstehe.
Je sais que mon coeur ne sait pas les emotions.
Mais, je pense que mon coeur comprend les emotions.
Peut-etre c'est fausse.
C'est juste une illusion.
Peut-etre c'est vrai.
Ou peut-etre ni vrai ni fausse.
C'est tout.
Je pense que mon coeur peut comprendre.
Et moi?
Und mir?
Ich verstehe,
ich verstehe.

Why go through all the Trouble
When there’s an Out?
It may be painful, no Doubt
But there is only double.
Yet this pain is no gain
With the decision that is made.
I have to wear a mask for every task
That is laid before me,
Leaving the hoard
Oblivious to the board
Of Deeds done to hide the Truth.
Goodbye, Love, I’ve finished the List.

Darkness is clarity and
Light is blinding
The question came to appearance
as to what I would fulfill in the distance.
Truth fled in terror into
the safekeeping company of Deceiving and Trickery.
Lord, help, am I a heretic?
Or it’s just nature?
Ex Machina feels as I,
Am I right?
Or this unknown thing correct?
Beliefs in Faiths confuses I,
for I do not know any more.

It was the biggest lie ever told,
Tears as evidence for the cunning sin.
What am I to do?
I’ve lost everything—
I’ve lost confidence—
I’ve lost hope—
I’ve lost warmth.
Since among these,
I can’t trust myself.
Why not let others lead me,
Instead of the Life I’m supposed to enjoy?

Right I am, the Birth of births.
Let them cry out: “It has sprung!”
To the point of no return,
some suffer.
Among them I am left hung.

***** things dreams can do,
Tantalize forever or creeping the minds.
Great things wishes can do,
Beasts are severed
And looting the finds.

Here the story sails,
With life to no avail.

O’er looking your life from above,
Not as high as the clouds,
Not as chaotic as the bounds,
But just as that dove.
Sometimes glances were exchanged,
As if I were there.
I’d touch your hair with my eyes’ range
Only to find your hand
Yearning to escape
My love of sand.
-And down it crumbles along the beach of fictitious bliss

Down it Goes
Down those petals go…
Just as the water flows
Into that Black Hole
Of Deceit, Nothingness,
And Sorrow.

I am Leonidas.
I did something, here and there.
Maybe you know me, maybe not.
They were significant things.
But when I see my old masters,
I can't help but think--
Do they know me?
Do they remember me?
They greet me, but do they know who they're greeting?
I do not know.
Maybe it's just courtesy, as I accompany my friend.
Am I an imposter?
Although I am Leonidas,
I question if they still remember me.
I am Leonidas,
but do they remember my name?

Writing daydreams,
Wandering mind.
Brand new car smell,
Pristine wrapping.
Feelings and sensations
Bridge the analogies.
They go hand in hand.

A sibling asked, “Why?”
but the world can’t know,--
won’t know--
doesn’t need to know.
For all the burden to be carried
must not be tried
by those who peril along for life.

A girl asked, “Who?”
The beaten path cannot be changed,
Forever maimed by the unforgiving pain.
All That One knows is
That something
occurred.

But He said, “I know.”
Of all the oblivious existence
That surrounded That One,
One knew who had done the bearing
Of that something
That occurred.

No one asked, “What?”
What took place during the dark morn’?
What became of One?
What had He done?
The truth that spilled
Was the opposite of He:
“I don’t know, had a course been run?”

That One sprawled on the floor,
With the bareness left in horror
For the closed to see.
T’was a weight so heavy,
So wary,
So weary.
Everyone saw light
Because all had been blinded
By that daunting,
Aweing
Fright.

All One knows is that what still remains is the untainted,
And unfeigned,
uncertainty.
And if it could be anymore,
The forever knocking,
Roaring
Door
Left a wholly,
Holy
Scar

To be untouched and caused
By That Something that occurred
Which had ridden
To a fear so hidden,

But One’s fault became known as:
The Stumble Upon The Backpack Of Burden.

Dangle me in front of your lads.
This is what you won't understand.
Tu es un petit garcon.
Tu es bete et tu es bete.
Tu ris a moi.
Tu me ris.
Mais tu ne parles pas francais.
Donc, tu es la blague.
Auch, du sprichst nicht Deutsche.
Du bist scheisse.
You make me angry.
Dont' come into my room and insult me.
Let's see how you like it,
Petit Garcon.

He cast out his open net
into the Hell of his greed.
The Devil reigns on to take
the poor souls that are in debt.
People take out their wallets
to ask the demon cashier,
can I pay with my grievance?

Of all the words a poet can say,
the pages only seem to betray
the thought of the mastermind who did compose
the story unfolded that lost all control.

People do go "Aren't our fates written there?
With the stars in the sky and the sun in the air?"
But the constellations only do suppose
we were only left with our horoscopes.

For the fools who consider life as an open book,
I wish I were Fate to explain the hook;
it's enticing and eye-catching, reeling us in,
but in the end, we're the bait, not the ones to win.

To the victors and sore losers, we can't play the game.
If death is the only doom that is rained,
we can't conquer anything as these mere humans.
We can't even reign over any solutions.

There're so many problems that cannot be fixed!
Were they meant to be and left as it is?
Alas, we always try to bend it to our will;
the world, the earth, and our contentious pill.

This drug we've swallowed to believe we have it all
will only lead us to our demise, our downfall.
If only the globe could stop spinning, we'll see
that we are merely just puppets and actors in a scene.

Leave the departed be.
Let them go and be free.
They shall sail for shore
and mark their rock with stone.
Raise your compass and follow
north, south, east, west,
wherever,
just go with the arrow.
Leave the departed be.
Don't hold them back.
Don't let them speak.
Just let go.
Be free.
To the departed who need to be let free.
Just be.
Sail for your shore.
Claim your stake.
Don't turn around for more.

Well, I’ve lived another day in the Self-Battle.
Today was the roughest out of all because
In the house of my Father was where I thought
It was wise to start losing the fight.
But no, this war will surpass the Hundred Years!
I’d seen a glimpse of firefight on the field.
But if I am to remain there,
My only hope is to think of mine close to me.
This is why I do not engage in war.
Eventually, you will believe the noose was your birth.
But I had it wrong all along.
If I lose the Great Self Battle,
It shall ripple across the oceans
Like those in the Middle of the World.
My company of conflict
Will be afflicted by my cause
And there will be no point of return.
As I write my romanticized letter of gruesome bloodshed,
Just know I’ve hidden an empty letter and envelope
To soon fill needs of despair, anguish, and agony.
For the day I stop looking forward to the sun
During the burning rays of God,
Is the day you will find:
The Gun triggered,
The Rope tied,
The Guillotine released,
And the emptiness to be filled
With the sadness of my words,
Loneliness,
And nonexistent love of others.

I always thought brains were like fingerprints.
I always thought that the way we think is unique.
But then I found out that some thoughts were the same.

I always thought, "No, it's different."
But there was somehow a link between us.
I just hoped it was all coincidence so that it could be explained away.
I didn't want to fall into the same pattern again.

Unfortunately, I am.
Now, I'll have to hope you're not thinking the same things I am.
But I secretly hope you are, but knowing you and you knowing me,
we'd probably say nothing or do anything.

I'm just doomed, but it's fine.
We always say it's fine.

To the kleptomaniac who stole my nights
and the thief that took my days,

you have turned me into an insomniac
who walks around like a living zombie and a maniac.

In my sleep, I think you put me under
ARSENIC
or lulled me to sleep with something
ACIDIC

but how could something taste so bitter?
Unless you tried to get me with something different?

I'm sorry for taking your heart,
I'm sorry for taking your soul,
I'm sorry for stealing your whole,
I'm sorry for stealing your part.

I had to do it, I couldn't live!
I had to do it, I would've sinned!
But again, I'm sorry, I apologize,
but again, I pen this and realize...

Forgive me, I stole your hand,
Forgive me, I stole your vows,
Forgive me, I stole your innocence,

But you make me so happy and stand,
but you're my other half,
but we're getting married now,
and I see you start to smile!

it’s been awhile since i’ve last spoken.
they said they liked my voice
and my innate stride through life.
when the turmoil trembles
and the tribulations teeter,
they say look up and hear the preacher
with words of wisdom
cry out in prose.
but nowadays, ever since i was pricked by a rose,
my songbird tones have died down
because the chirping atmosphere
no longer motivates me.
i used to have so many words to say
but i locked them up because they were too precious—
too rare.
i grieve for my lost voice,
but it can always come back.
for now i hum myself a lullaby
someday i’ll be ready again to share my words.

Temper is a madman on the loose.
He's tired of being locked up in prison.
Eventually, he's found, but always looks for the noose.
No one knows why he's jailed, he could be innocent.
He must've killed someone, we assume.
He never confessed or gave a hint.

Temper is a tired man, always hungry for food.
He has the urge to run, but knows he shouldn't.
"When will it end? I don't want to break the rules."
To this day, we know he's out there--
He's within us, and that's the end.

Shh! Keep it down! I'm scared they'll hear,
the Yesmen are after me, they might smell your fear.
The whole tribe is on the hunt for my dignity.
All I did was say one thing, and that one thing alone
triggered, like a gun starting off the race, the hoard to come
stampeding towards me.

I'm in the safety of my humble abode.
I'm in my sweet and sound home
with a welcome mat that says, "Hello!"
But I'm terrified that my neighbors are infected
and have turned into the Yesmen.

It's a disease, an infection, and the flu altogether.
All year-round, the people are prone to sickness.
The only way to ward off this evil is through a mind of your own.
But we only have these materials, a match and a torch.
I guess we can't start a fire in our hearts or a flame in our chest,
or a passion or desire or some other pest,
but the Yesmen will smell it all and eat you up like a beast.

No, no, no! They're onto us! They've caught on!
How do I know? Well, they reek of disappointment!
You can tell from miles away that I'm on their radar,
and not very far.

Be careful, I'll sacrifice myself because I don't want to live in this world anymore.
The Yesmen have taken over and I'd have to obey
these savages and barbarians that slay anything in their way.
This only happened because I finally decided to stick up my nose
to say one thing, and that one thing was "No."

Imagine hearing people behind you
laughing constantly
always wondering
if you have a tail
behind you
and that's why it's so humorous
or maybe I'm a donkey
and they're trying to pin
on me my own humility?

How impotent and weak mankind is!
We build ourselves up as heroes,
but fall to the simplest things:
vices.
We love to boast about our achievements,
but it comes to ruins because of
vices.
How sick and tiring it is
that it only angers me.
They ask me why I'm always hot-headed;
how else can I not be!
Mankind is frail--
we think we're all above one another.
It's pathetic.
We believe to find excuse
and we suffer as a whole.
It's stupid.
Mankind is full of simpletons.
We chase the vices.
It's disgusting.
Mankind is incompetent.

From the crease of the forehead
and the furrowing of the brows,
he tried to concentrate in his bed,
failing to dream about--

The door slightly creaked,
a sliver of light peaked,
he shivered in his sleep
while the dark figure came and creeped.

He shut his lids tight
to protect his eyes from vivid life,
simply hoping for his lucid wishes
to stay inside and kept a secret.

He tossed and turned
while his temperature rose and burned.
With his back against the door,
his stomach churned.

Slowly, a shadowy presence appeared.
This is not what he wanted.
This is what he feared.
It grabbed hold of his shoulders--
oh dear!
His heart ****** before his eye shutters opened.
His retina scanned the wall opposite the door,
his rods and cones were adjusting to the horror,
the iris was in a fright
and his body was so frigid and uptight.

The apparition shouted in a raspy whisper,
"Aye, it's me from yonder!
Down you will go--down under!
I'll drag you down with your despair--
your anxiety--
and your dread
to my sinful lair.
Disappear! Disappear!
You will be gone
and like every other trickster
be remembered as simply a clever jester."

The figure revealed that he was The Grim Reaper
stalking bodies in the night-time
and harvesting their souls.
The boy's body lay there, cold.
Now, it was prime.
The time was ripe.
The reaper unsheathed his scythe.
The fiend lifted it above his head, but paused.
He pondered.
No, this isn't just.
Gently, he laid his weapon, full of blood and rust.

In a sudden gesture,
Mr. Reaper rolled up his sleeve
and ripped into the boy's back.
Mr. Reaper slid through the muscle and tissue.
He bypassed the cage of bones and its marrow.
There was some sticky goo--
but nevermind that, his heart was close.

The dark ghoul latched onto the throbbing aorta
and ripped it out.
Although no blood gushed--
the veins were still pumped--
and there still remained a thump thump--
something had been stolen.

The boy's cheeks were flushed,
but finally, the threat had ceased and stopped.
He did not bother to ******--
instead, finally, drift off into a land of lust.
His beating ***** slowed to a soft murmur
and his vessels remained intact.
If Mr. Reaper were still there,
all he'd hear is the air.
The boy went in dozing--
a sweet melody playing in his ear.
It seems that the devil lay him to rest--
he had Mr. Reaper to thank later.

Ecstasy--
he was elated, floating on the clouds to nowhere.
He desisted from ever waking up.
Why would he?
How dare he?
What an offense to Mr. Reaper--
after all the struggles to finally be lulled asleep,
how dare he even think of waking?

Sedated--
he couldn't move.

Let's say I went to the bar to drink.
Then got drunk.
Let's say I went to the pool to swim.
Then swam.
Let's say I went to the bed to sink.
Then I sunk.
Sunk into my head.
The sheets.
And I ask why?
Why do I have a window to stare at?
For there to be blinds covering it and a house blocking the view.
Why do I spin circles and circles dodging the pain in my head like the ceiling fan?
Most of all, why--
for the love of God--
when I close my eyes
is it only for a short while?
Could it not be a little longer?
A little escape?
Instead, you fill my head with lies,
false hopes.
It's not nightmares--
it's worse.

I always through Cupid had one arrow
but instead, he has a quiver
and now I stand here with ****** love
and leave my body to shiver
He sends down a rain of them
and I can only watch and stare
I'd like to say I'm shielding you
protecting you
but instead, he is simply aiming at me
My heart's been shot down
I am his target
but your eyes are the gun
and the blinks are the trigger
Cupid's love arrow is not a game
it is simply pain

Now that I've woken from the morphine
it feels like a hangover
I can't get rid of--
it feels like cancer in my body
that has no cure--
it feels like a drug
that I've seemed to overdose--
Where's the gauze
to cover my bullet wounds?
Where's the gas
to seal my tomb?
I've only found a needle filled with poison
and a bottle labeled Toxic.
But I simply need Jack Daniels
to drown my worries
and a knife to my Aorta,
my heart a tree full of sap
to be used as extract.
Hand me the scissors nurse!
I have the hands of a skilled surgeon!
On this operating table, here I lay
to amputate myself, alone,
and cut off all ties with Love.

Aphrodite found me curled in a corner,
hiding in the dark shadows of the room.
I've been a soldier
abandoned in the battlefield--and boom!
Something causes me to falter.
It's the emotion in the night, I assume,
that stalks me as prey, the predator.
I am in fright, and it'll loom--
Venus's touch makes me shudder,
I am Echo with no sound to use,
I am left in solitude and confined to endure...

Love's the same,
it's all tame,
no one to blame,
since I decided and came
to play the game,
my heart a burning flame,
but no one to share its aim.

I love someone.
You don't reciprocate.
You're Everyone.

Oh, how I'd love to go out for a smoke.
Stare off into the distance, lonely, wallowing in self-pity.
I can't decide if I want to be holding a Cuban cigar or a skinny Camel.
What do I want for the day?
Oh, how I'd love to go out for a drink.
Feel like royalty sitting on my throne, surrounded by strangers who don't care.
Wallowing in self-pity.
I can't decide if I want an old-=fashioned or Aviation.
What do I want for the night?
Oh, how I'd love to go out for a walk.
Is it so hard to ask?
I can't decide if I want to be a criminal or a killer.
I messed up, wallowing in self-pity.
What do I want for life?

Wealth is like the gulf stream
down by the bay
where the children go out to play
in hope, they would bask in it someday.

Wealth is like a gulf stream
which trickles down the water,
but the few who control its faucet
take advantage of all its assets.

Wealth is like a gulf stream
that has been poisoned with disease
that people go out to drink
only to be diagnosed with sadness.

Wealth is like a gulf stream
where people go to drown.
When they get caught up in too much fun,
evil begins to flood the lungs.

Wealth is like a gulf stream
that people of thirst dream.
And though, as good as it may seem,
it is not life's only thing.

We swim into that dark, murky oil.
In its depths, we see Time.
It fills our lungs and ears.
It covers our bodies like a thick layer.
We are so naked, yet the blackness shields us.
Covers us.
Do not despair.
Let it swallow us whole.
We may be blind but in the space of clarity.
We trudge and trudge,
we fight the drag,
it pulls us away, but alas,
we make our presence here last.

Though we live in the world of that dark, murky oil,
Time is not the enemy.
It is our guidance.

To hell with what they say.
"He knows how to manage it on his own."
Maybe I talk so I hide everything else away.
Is he really better off on his own?
What I speak has no substance anyway.
Haven't you ever felt that?
Accuse me of being lazy.
Go ahead, point your fingers.
I would yell back but,
I have lost all my energy.
I throw my pillows, punch them--
I face the wall, punch it--
I take my finger gun, shoot it--
everything in sight and then--
point it to my head.
**** it back.
Close my eyes.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Click.
It's empty. Aren't we all?
I live to see another day.
Carpe diem.

Indeed you are simply a fool
stuck in time, trying to wrench yourself out as a tool.
If I were only the Fate you believed to tell that life is a book,
not very open to tell you the truth,
I wished I could explain to you the hook.
It's enticing and eye-catching, reeling you in,
but in the end, you're the bait, not the one to win.
So throughout your history, how can you admit
to me, of all infinity,
that you just simply exist?
I guess time will express the answer.
And to that, I say that man will be the forgetful ancestor.

You are my traitor for claiming you exist.
It may not be up to me, but,
Yous should be banished for eternity
for you cannot explain you exist.

I'm stuck under a pool of water
and a sea of tears
and an ocean of sadness
and a lake of depression
and a shore of low-points
and a cliff of close-ends
and a grass of no greens
and a land of no one
and a tree of no oxygen
and a sky of no sun
and an air of no life.
I can't breathe.
I'm drowning.
Frankly, it's all shallow.
Swallow me whole, Mr. Pill.

Remember when I was young,
crammed in a king-sized bed with the four of us like little anchovies or tuna
packed in a can?
Getting my eyes
adjusted and
staring at the ceiling fan,
hoping that my dreams would be real?
Imagining that the little specks and
floating dust that my eyes see are
leading me somewhere even though they're just made up in my head?
Gleaming at the vertical blinds that are
blocking my view from the dark sky,
hiding that beauty that is outside,
covering the
glimmering stars in the starry, starry night?
Going back to the time,
wishing I was still a small child,
tucked in and under the warm bed sheets,
glazing over what can and will be,
counting the stars, not the sheep, like one, two, three...
dreaming to discover a better space,
knowing that my future will unfold,
trusting that I will leave a tale to be told.

Snoozing, dozing, snoring, hearing
through thin plaster
with no soundproof walls,
wailing.

Maybe I'm part of a trick,
maybe I'm part of a game,
but what I do know is
that I am a mere piece of paper.

When the children see my face
and then it disappears,
they are in awe, amazed, and absolutely cheer
on the performer who holds me in their hands.
But it is never me they appreciate on the stands.

My life has been cut out for me.
I've been crafted and manufactured
like the rest of them.
Whatever suit I'll wear,
I'll either have a heart or not.

It's an endless cycle that I'm in.
The magician will fold me and tear me apart,
only to come back again as one whole.
But the watchers don't care what I've been through.

It's a hard job, being me.
Only a puppet in mastery.
My controller takes advantage of my beautiful face,
but a piece of paper, that is my only fate.

Quick, grab the poison! It's sure to fill us up.
It's tantalizing, telling us to go grab a cup.
Everyone will say that we've gone insane,
but who's right, me or fate?

The orphans go screaming to find a family.
All you really need are the gas and explosions.
Carry the dead around as if they're a piece of meat
only to cause the readers full of emotions.

Hurry! Someone tell me to stop penning this thing,
I'll be ****** if I say that I am quite tame,
for the truth can only be spit in harshness,
but the bitterness is that this is all in secret.

Decode me with your eyes! I'm sending a message.
Don't you get it? The inside of my inner mind?
It's chaotic, there's fire, everywhere.
All the therapists say is to go drink some water.

STOP! You're telling me what I already know.
It's my end of the line, but I'll bargain a foe.
If you let me do the deed the day I do wish,
then I'll be forever in your humble service.

There! Finally, a deal with the devil!
I can make my way back and refuse the bill.
I have to pay my tax for the agreements.
Do you only accept cash or take souls in grievance?