I lain in a half-sleep, hearing my grandmother's voice.

When she died, I was jobless,
sleeping on her couch,
and a few months out of the ward.

My mental instability helped me lose friendships, love, and my identity.

I used to hope death would touch me
and I did not know why I wanted it to.

Death instead touched her,
drifting like a gas, underneath her door,
into her lungs, erasing consciousness
like lavender being blown by the wind,
into marked a detergent bottle.

I lain in a half-sleep, hearing my grandmother's voice.

A blue shock spread throughout me,
like the ocean swallowing animals
and forcing them to adapt.

I began drowning in water that looked like gas station slushee,
my ribcage hugging frantic gelatin organs,
beating alongside the spindle of time.

I lain in a half-sleep, hearing my grandmother's voice.

My carcass became Sun-kissed from the burning of change --
my grandmother died before I could succeed:
my grandmother died before she could see me live.

I crawl through the coarse, wheat-dyed sand,
hoping the blood I trail can be measured in her love.

I hope to make her proud, to learn to work hard,
then harder and harder and harder.
To become fully healthy,
to become what she stayed by my side for.

One of the few.

I lain in a half-sleep, hearing my grandmother's voice.

She said she was proud of me.
It probably was me and not her,
but at least someone is proud.

here's the thing about poetry,
there is no tangible definition.
there is no standard,
there is no normal.

each one of us are made of adjectives,
metaphorically speaking.
we are made of words,
that flow within the depths of our minds,
and reminds us what it's like to be alive.
each, a beautiful thought to think.

so i thank god for poetry,
because otherwise?
my thoughts wouldn't know,
where to go.

a new blue tie,
a freshly ironed smile.

a political ****** expression,
a polished pair of leather dress shoes.

the democracy's corruption police,
becomes a system of spoils.

they chose their heirs,
before the election,
even begins.

talents lost in initiatives hands.
respect changes them,
leaving justice behind in the process.

trying to make sense of nothing,
is what this free land has become.

an oligarchic form of life,
and an autocratic vision of the future.

It's an asset to  be taciturn,
Reticent, laconic, terse,
And to the point.
I consider myself such,
So listen...
Do I have a story for you.
It was a dark and stormy night;
The wind howled destruction
Coming across...

To **** the dream
is to **** the self -
the suicide of days.

Imagine a life
where your only dream
is to dream,

where you live unaware
of something else, better.

What if the only thing that makes you wake up in a cold wintery morning is a fantasy?

What if a single dream is sustaining the weight of your entire universe?