I have no time for you
for I am busy pulling
pieces of me together
with glue and tape

I have no time for you
for I am still looking
for the sun under the
rainy clouds

I have no time for you
I have no time for anything
Not even for myself
I have no time at all

You know that voice inside your head,
That whispering ***** that wants you dead,
A hell grip tease, knows every fault,
That sly little snitch that you can’t halt.

A slick negotiate this voice of yours,
Knows the Band-Aid tricks that you adore,
Rough ***, play drugs, drink all day,
Says **** yourself, you’re a throw-a-way.

So listen crisp, you’ve got an outside chance,
****-can the guilt and the worry romance,  
Stoke this moment, jive the second you’re in,
Don’t end your life, let the ****** begin.

It’s a hollow *** world, we all wearing shells,
Hard knocks, beat downs, sad farewells,
So write your ****, make your memories scream,
Claim your poem, tip type the bad dreams.

We can’t make it easy but we can hear,
A community listens, maybe offer a tear,
It’s a bruise harsh life, so take this hand,
Black and white your ****, no reprimand.

humans paint the galaxies;
stars poured by the gods
on a piece of dark, endless canvas.
the nature talks about freckles and moles on a maiden's skin
and how interesting connecting dots into intricate shapes is.

humans boast about love.
all the mediocre melodies to woo, cupid unleashing arrows,
and the cries written on minor scale;
blacks and whites of the piano.
the unexplainable look on one's eyes.
things they left unrecorded though—
ones the studio of the universe releases an album of:
motorbike roars as a boy speeds through countless others
that are deemed insignificant,
compared to the thought of his mom waiting at home.

for centuries and more centuries,
the poets go on about emptiness.
the caging abyss, they said,
of sadness. a dark place.
but seasons whisper the stark difference
of breeze nibbling on your skin
and of the dropping temperature of winter
harshly piercing your senses like knives.

dancers waltz to the moonlight,
reenacting silent screams and insanity.
but withering flowers' petals got themselves caught up in a game of tag with their own kin.

it's funny how humans talk about the comparison (as i am doing right now)
of the art we make and the art that is already there before us.
when the universe tries again and again to teach us
what kind of little majestic things we are, what kind of little majestic things surround us.

*(must say, we're quite dumb. unable to understand.)

The end of Summer draws nearer by the second. I can feel the rain coming as my bones tighten. The salty air of the coast engulfs my lungs, the taste of the ocean lingers on my tongue. I'm going to miss this. Everyone is saying the world is ending, they've been saying it for weeks now but this time, this time it's happening. Death is not a myth anymore. Death is a waiting visitor approaching our doorsteps.

I thirst in my search
for words
that came first

in verse and in song
what's been here all along

since Peking (wo)Man
singing in the womb
at Zhoukoudian

when the first moon climbed
above branches frozen in time -

our rhythm and rhyme -
a memory of a memory
of the history

of how a poem came to be.