to the friend, the stargazer
do you still write poetry?
do you still scribble your haikus
with bravery and flare?

I have come back to the homeland
but I did not see you there
when you used to be the constant
that would pop up in my head

I guess we all decided to travel
beyond the calming plains
out there in the open
throwing writing to the wind

I have lost my little sparkle
matches are all that's left
I might've dropped the candle
that my poetry has built

If you see this, dear friend
I hope you write again
I would love to see your haikus
in this lovely little page

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

I let the sparkle float the air
surrounded yellow, oh so, frail
for it, I could reminisce
for she is, my Everest

I have forgotten how to write,
nothing came to empty mind
darkness always made me rhyme
grief, the anger, and, of spite

but, she, my ever-rest
took me off the scary edge
led me to secure-ity
against all my diverse-ity

Wordplays are beyond me
[create-TV-tea]
but I had it, and it is
so I go back without the rest
and pause,
period,
leave.

Does being strong require that I come crumbling under pressure with the guise of bravery to cover the bleeding that the pavements scrapped within my being?

Does being strong require me to be undaunted, brave to pain, and be iron-minded that no thoughts of rest shall pass upon the cage I built, made up of screams that I swallow in times of despair?

Why does being strong require me to hurt, and hurt with no one understanding that I too am just an ordinary person, that although I'd take a bullet, it does not mean I am heroic, sometimes I wished the bullet would avoid my flesh that is so brittle by the times.

Does strong really have to be sacrificial on my part? Just because I can be mean to maintain order that I'd have to be punished, when to prevent chaos I chose to keep it a circus in my head, that keeps me up all night.

saying it makes my skin tingle
the back of my throat burns
bile comes shooting from the pit
of my stomach, till my mouth is bitter

I hate every inch of this body
and this mind that's too ticklish
it could pop, like a bubble
but stronger than a rock

all this haughty facade
is easily brittle, the blisters
seeping through my soul
and I bleed, an immortal

I work in progress-
but I am marked red,
unwanted by the gods
and rejected by the devil

I am tired of giving
and lending, comforting
to never try

just sick of breaking
and betting, gambling
but not to cry

if only I could sleep
and dream, resting
without this drug

to receive is wishing
and pleading, exhausting
all my might

if this is living
then it is not worth it
I'd rather lie

my words are incoherent
verbose, assaulting
may it survive