Better that every fiber crack
and fury make head,
blood drenching vivid
couch, carpet, floor
and the snake-figured almanac
vouching you are
a million green counties from here,

than to sit mute, twitching so
under prickling stars,
with stare, with curse
blackening the time
goodbyes were said, trains let go,
and I, great magnanimous fool, thus wrenched from
my one kingdom.

reading daily zodiac
at 4 a.m.

heavy lidded eyes
riddled by LED
heavily burdened hearts
riddled by the past

horoscopic solutions
to why our hearts
and minds fail

one star
slightly out of alignment
claims
all of the inner workings
of my body chemistry

year of the beast
ravaging all
of my relationships

house of mercury
in my bloodstream

I am a writer, a ****** of words. I am a pen that's skipping ink but I still continue to write despite the broken lines because that's what I'm made for in the first place. Maybe the reason why I get hurt so much is that I fall in love with words a lot. I'm in love with people who is in love with literature. These poems and letters may not be made for you or because of you but their main purpose of being written is to move you. I want you to do something about that girl who works in your favorite book shop because I don't want you commiting the same regrets as I did. I want you to raise your voice and write about the oppression or the wage gap. I want you to write about something from the deepest part of your chest. I want you to write about something I cannot write about.

But some days, I feel nothing. I could write about being in love and about the color of their eyes but nowadays, their eyes look exactly the same. I could write about sadness but sadness itself is what hinders me to grab a pen. Now, I could write about happiness. But I rarely feel this way and when I feel this way, ******* I feel this way. I could gather these words about being filled with the color yellow but happiness will say that those words are not enough to fathom the euphoria I feel in me. Maybe one day, I could explore enough dictionaries to find the perfect words on what I have to say.

You don't have to be the greatest writer there is to make someone feel something through your words. Write about everything, every emotion, and every person who finds their way to your heart. When you can't write anymore, get outside and get your heart broken. Go outside and experience an experience that you never thought you would experience. Soon enough, you will write the words you never thought you would ever write. Don't hold anything other than offensive and oppressive thoughts back. Let the poetry run through your veins and drip down your fingertips. Write, write, and write until you can't write anymore. When you can't write anymore, seek a perhaps to write about then write, write, and write until you can't anymore. Even when the poem is below my satisfaction, I continue to share it anyway because being stoic and still would lead me to madness.

I am a writer, a ****** of words. I am a pen that's skipping ink and even though my lines are broken and unappealing, I continue to write anyway and because that is what I am made for in the first place.

one day the world
will forget our names,
our memories will be
wiped away from the surface of the earth
and the things we used to own
will turn to ashes with us.
then, we'll be buried underground.
we will become one with the earth
and our flesh will linger through
the wildflowers and sprout again above our coffins
and we'll say our last words to the wind.
the temples that were made for us
will turn into an artifact,
a museum of what we were
and what we could have been.
one day, the last star will collapse
and the universe will be inhabitable.
but we will linger around the
dark and black void that we
once called home.

the electricity posts
in my veins are all broken
and there aren't enough
electrical engineers to revive them.
the atmosphere is getting colder
and the flowers in my tongue slowly whither.
i'm running out of words to use for a the color of your eyes
so im sorry if they turn out to be like anyone else's.
the absence of the tidal waves of poetic awakening
cripples my wrist and fingers until the only way
to get me to write is to bleed.
i want to feel alive
like im a cloud swimming through
the fantastic colors of the sky.
i miss the way ink drips from my fingertips
i want to feel home again.
home with words, with poetry.
laying down on a bed of proses while a piece
sings softly in the background.
that's my hyper-reality, a kind of fantasy
i can no longer find meaning in.

My little black book is dusty,
The names are smeared and
Most of them were landline numbers.
For you youngsters,
Get on your parents lap and ask em
To tell ya what landlines were:
    And I hate your love poem
    Because I know they are real,
    I need a girlfriend,
    Maybe I forgot how that feels.
    
    I hate your love poem,
    Its really quite good,
    But the t reminds me I'm all
    Alone, alone in da hood.

    I hate your love poem
    Because I don't know any girls,
    And yeah some are corny,
    Some make me wanna hurl!

    So don't get it wrong,
    Please try to understand,
    I'm just a little jealous,
    Alone and doing what I can.