Isn't it crazy
That we cross paths with some people
For a mere moment in our lives
Never to see them again
How big the world is
How many stories untold
If I live long enough
I wish to listen
To all these stories
I wish to experience
The bitter, sweet, painfully ironic
blip it is
To be human
7.88 billion more times

One time I saw an intricate bouquet of blue roses by the garbage room
I wonder how many other roses have been thrown out
Because of our human tendency to hope, to love
Or to hurt, with or without meaning to
It could have been a couple fighting
A rejected somebody
Someone who simply hated blue roses
A frustrated florist
These are stories I will never know

You may not always reach the high notes
but you try
and that's why I love you

Sharing an imaginary kith
Through straws
I may be getting older, but boy does
That give me schmetterlinge

I wanna cuddle under blankets
As we sit beside each other in the plane
Flying to wherever
But for now, that might just be a dream
As I sit across a couple cuddling
Imagining what could be
And wake up as every second I go farther     away from        
            
you

Maybe one day my love we could be that too
But for now we shall wait past
sunrises and sundowns
airports and city skylines
blinding lights
heavy traffic

solitude

until we’re in each other’s arms again
Wait for me, okay?

feeling is a double-edged sword
on one hand, you write poems, fall in love, make art
on the other, you see scars from feeling too much

never thought I’d want you again
never thought I’d need you again
but I’m scared to lose what I feel
how I feel
when I feel

so tell me what I should choose
to feel, to write
or to not feel ever again, to slowly die inside —

which?

Why Men Cry in the Bathroom

For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.

Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.

We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.

Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.

Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.

But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,

The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath

Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.

Why just men?

I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.


Jan 6, 2013