My blanket is trying to swallow me
while I sink deeper in my bed
My phalanges have harnessed fire
and authored many a great idea
but millions of years of progress
conclude in them hanging
like fruit waiting to fall to the ground
Severed from life
not to return again

at fifteen, words hovered wherever i went.
at seventeen, the words appeared only in the darkest places.
at eighteen, it had fizzled out and appeared in a storm.
at twenty, it is all just out of reach.

but that is up to me.

to all the writers i met before,
to the strangers behind the screen,
you nurtured what i had to offer to the world.
at that age, you made my 'hopefully' the reality.

what i hid from everyone, you witnessed.

today, i would grab every word i can until
eventually, they make sense.

fingers around in knots
show you the shape of my mind
tense, displaced

and my hands, for holding and gripping
instead only frantic
for no purpose can be presently met

there is no do, but just tapping

if i am again reduced to a bad memory,
i might assume that role.
when i am history and i am the writer's enemy,
i might leave those letters frozen cold.
because if that is what i am in your mind,
that might be all i'll ever be.

what do you care if i metamorphosize?
why do i care what you think of me?
i am just a bad memory
and the only pieces of me you hold
are nothing but my history.

there is nothing i can do to change that.
no part of it i can erase.
but if i am someone's bad memory,
why should that stop me from becoming
another's beloved at this present moment?

The wall is my punching bag
and your face is my inspiration.
Even when my knuckles sag,
there is no hesitation.

I have bruises on my fingers
but it is not the wall's fault.
It is the surge of my anger's
and they make my fists stronger.

The poison you poured in me
is overflowing the bottle.
Every punch the wall meets
is every sip of my struggle.

The pain is sinking in
and it feels worse than the bruises.
It's buried deeper within
so I dig but it refuses.

The wall is nothing
to what festers inside.
My punches do nothing
and there is nowhere to hide.

The disease is within me
and it is thriving in my mind.
The only way out is nowhere in sight.
I looked to my fists to set myself free
but my fists have no eyes
so I cannot see.

Now, my arms deserve to rest.
I'll even bid them a good night
because today won't be the worst
and I'll need them another time.

i feel your arms around me
my head is on your shoulder
you whisper that you love me
it made me feel warmer

i feel safe with you near
and even when you're far
i know you'll always be here
even when i dont know where you are

i open my eyes and see
im holding cold, white cloth
it's not you holding me.
i sob into my pillow.

I'm not what you want to see
but I won't try to change for you.
What you see is only me
and I am who I want to be.

I won't shed the colors of my skin
for these are my only hues.
We are the same but you are not my twin
and I'm the sole owner of my sins.

The market of lives which doesn't exist
so I can't trade with those I wish
but living this life with no regrets
is the greatest battle I can never resist.

is it my fault you stopped shining
when i took you in my hands?
why you stopped burning so bright
and undeserving of your glance?

The best fish you can catch is a fresh perspective.

when thunder strikes,
i hear you in my head.
scared, childlike
while you're lying in bed.

tell me what you need.
warmth, a hug from me?
it was what you let me believe
and i was too blind to see.

you tossed me the next day,
from your bed to the streets.
you said we'd be okay

but i guess you really were lying in bed.

That night was our (my) Polaris,
where I thought our futures would take us.
I suppose it wasn't Polaris because you left me with my future, not ours.
I wished for the stars to take us where we thought we'd be, but I guess I wished for dust in the desert.
The stars took back their promises.

If there's a way out of this thick dead skin, show me.
If there's a way to be alive despite my thick dead skin, I need to know.
If there's a way to slice through this thick dead skin, hand over a thick sharp blade.
If there's a way out of this thick dead skin, I'll find us again.

I am a rotten apple.
I am gray and dry,
I rolled in the mud.
I am covered in white fluff,
and it crawls over my skin
so I am no longer an apple.
I am a host for dirt and filth.

My thumb hasn't hovered over a button for so long until today.
Today I said something, and now I need to make myself pay.
It came in the form of guilt and shame.
A mistake this big cost me a shyness I only ever felt at the beginning of all this.
This is the price of betrayal; a hesitance to send a message, the fear of rejection, and a shame of repeating grave mistakes.

It's bright in here and I don't know what's outside.
But I'm sure that it's bright here.
I'll stay here. It's safe inside.

chase the clouds away
anger in its wake
a hurricane, a storm
frustration takes form
let my rain speak
let it be gentle
but let the sky darken over it
let the waves toss ships
and let the wind destroy your home
let the cyclone
awaken your caution

but it's all in my head

If you think of a life with me, picture me with soap in my hair, bubbles lining the strands of my wet-with-sweat frizz.

Picture the tomato-sauce-stained plates with bits of pasta, scattered by the sink like the continents of the world when it should be just Pangea, one place, all neat.

Picture me holding the sponge, scrubbing the red out of the white plates we ate from.

I'll picture your arms wrapped around me, head resting on my shoulder, murmuring behind me that I smelled like sweat.

Picture me smiling at the honesty and then listen to me complain to you that we should get this done. WE.

I'll picture you rinsing after I told you to and I'll hear your whining about your tired arms and how you're impatient about feeling my lips on yours.

And then we hurry, we wash the dishes together and there is soap in my hair.

We wash our hands which go to each other's waist and then we pull closer and then your hand is on my face and the taste of your mouth is on my tongue.

And then we stop. We stare.

Picture that, PinkInk.

I laid out my promises on a blanket.
I chose which ones I'd make, which ones I'd break, and which ones I'd keep.

I pick one up to examine it thinking, where would this one be when I'm older?

Sometimes,
I choose in a rush, in a blurry space where liquid burns in my eyes, I ride on a promise I'm forced to cling to.

Sometimes,
I choose with wise judgment, I see myself keeping it until I don't have to.

Sometimes,
I make impossible promises, hollow reassurance, empty, delusional, and temporary.

Sometimes,
I make promises to you, ready with a puffed chest and proud smile. I will keep them all.

I wrote and rejected my own words,
I marked them basic, unoriginal.
I erased lines I never replaced.
I stopped making new worlds.
I loathed that I was only typical,
I hoped it would only be a phase
But I paused.
The pause turned into a halt.
It turned into a break, turned into never.
Then I wrote back all that I lost,
Stopped stopping and breaking and believing the false.
I want to continue writing letters.
So I will mix and match and reach my goal to have never been better.

Your heat and mine, in the spaces between our palms and fingers,
in the closeness of our tangled legs on the cold floor,
in the wholeness I feel after a long embrace,
in the light striking your brown eyes,
in the contact of your hand to my face, your thumb stroking my cheek,
and the world melts around us,
beyond the point of your heat and mine.

i reached the peaks of my sadness a few times this week
once because i miss her
twice because im transferring
thrice because i failed
four times because my mom hates me
five times because i want to die
six times because i am alone
seven times because im begging to get
my life back together

see my angsty pout?
i will never be enough
but i was before

just drop the shovel
you are not a dead person
it's not your turn yet

it's physics, alright, this whole thing is.
my mom flicked us off the goshdarn cliff.
all we're doing is falling but get this:
our fingers gon' find something to grip
ain't gon' do much, that, we will loosen.

we be fallin' and i reckon it will hurt,
y'know, hitting the ground, so small tip.
brace yourself, prepare for the worst.
it's going to be a pretty rough trip.
we will break bones and lose our heads.

we got no clue where we'll land
but we know what we're goin' through
and if we gotta fall we gotta stand.
while we fall there ain't much to do;
just fall 'til we go where we gotta be.

and in the end, when we're healed from it,
the someone you're with don't gotta be me.

The world is something I inconsistently love yet when it's you? There's no time to stop loving you at all.

i sat with the company of an absent mind
and while my brother bent over paper,
his hands carefully making strokes with a pencil
i watched and heard my mother ask him,
"what are you writing?"
and i thought, "when will you ever ask me?"

when i was hunched over my chicken-scratch-filled
notebook, you didn't even bother looking.
when i proudly read the feelings i turned into words,
where was your question: "what are you writing?"

i think i just missed when back then she read my stories
and waved it at my father.
i think i miss the grins that came after.
i think i miss when i wrote and you'd
find my childish plot and still think it's great.

but ma, ive written 40 poems this year
and when im hunched over another
chicken-scratch-filled piece of paper,
i want to hear the question again -
"what are you writing?"

I'm not a pineapples-on-pizza person but I know you are.
If I were pizza, I'd have pineapples on top.
If I weren't, would I have caught your attention?
Would you have made that satisfied moan when you tasted me and groped my *** - I mean crust (but really, what's the difference) - while you brought me to your lips for another bite?

We owe it to ourselves to grow
and think of the places we can go.
We owe it to ourselves to grow
just as high as the sky allows us to
but let it be that the sky owes it to us
to rise higher as we will it to.

Let the clouds part that our dreams may pass
and they flower into bills and wads of cash and more than that -
let it be that we don't stick our heads up our *****
and that we breathe comfortably together with those we love.

Let it be that when the time comes, we are cut down before we wither.
Let it be that decomposition should come after and that we die before we break down.

Her faint pop music,
The giggles they make
in the dark
In one room
Different worlds
Deep in slumber
Or awake on the surface
No in between
Sleep won't sink in
Patience wearing
Head ringing
Throat feeling bile
I'm tired.

Ding went the phone
when I was alone.
Thud went my feet,
loud like drumbeats.
Ding went the sound
then a small frown.
A sigh came from me;
it wasn't from he.

What if when I said I cared for you,
it was only in that moment?

What if even it was true,
it was only temporary?

I never said I always would
since I wasn't sure I always could.

So I wouldn't be lying if I told you again, because it would only be for the sake of the moment.

I thought I knew you
but I've been floating on the surface.
If what I've seen's true,
I'll dive headfirst to your place.
My messy aims
released me to a vaccum in nowhere.
I struck home, felt nothing,
touched everything since you're there.
I thought 'twas over,
but you're always somewhere.
I don't really know you,
wish I did, I want reasons to be there.
So give me reasons to be there.
I'll listen to the things that you'll share.
You don't need to feel mundane
because whatever it is, I'll care.
Small achievements or nightmares,
complaining that life's unfair,
let me be close to you
and let's turn things around.
Just you and me,
we'll leap off the ground and
stay in the air.

Ivory frozen in grace,
Lifeless sight unerased.
They take their place
in the hall of fame.
The artist, the art,
we know their names.

I didn't have an umbrella.

The night sky was darkened by gray clouds,
and the rain fell from there, way down to the ground.
The path I walked was not dry,
and I could not find a roof to hide.

So I drowned the complaints of my drenched hair,
I told my skin not to care that it was sticky,
and I reached to the sky with my arms bare.
I didn't have to pretend it wasn't raining there.

Because I bounced from a puddle to another,
and I felt like I'd be stepping on water forever
but I didn't have to bother for cover.
I was not any less naked to the rain than the street kid on the road.

I quite enjoyed the ******,
the rain and its touching me,
and it didn't choose where to touch.
It just flowed from hair to shoes,
and I was peaceful very much.

Scan the room, pause at you, blink, scan and pretend I didn't just glance at you.
Look up, pause at you, blink, sweep my eyes away from you.
Lean on the table, look relaxed, write things absently.
I see you at the corner of my eye, scanning the room, pausing at me,
blinking, and pretending you didn't just glance at me.
Looking up, pausing at me, blinking, sweeping your eyes away from
mine.
Permission to push down the butterflies, please?

Can you read what you read?
I'm sure you can and there's no need to ask.
But it's weird.
Feeling through symbols.
Understanding symbols.
Writing symbols.
Combining symbols to make sense.
But some combinations are wrong.
Making sounds for symbols.
Saying the symbols correctly.
Different accents for symbols.
Drawing symbols, making them look pretty.
Fonts for symbols.

Imagine. We are ruled by systems of symbols.

Fish would rather suffocate in land than drown in water.

There's something I'm itching to write
but I bite my lips and grip the pencil tight.

Nothing comes to mind.

I write this sentence but it doesn't sound quite right, it doesn't quite capture the essence of tonight.

I stare at the wall, then back at the paper where no words land. My thoughts make my hair stand and I want people to understand.

But my hand doesn't move.

So I sit back and write about not knowing what to write.

Just shallow, raspy breaths in this hollow paradise,

and nothing that inspires me to open my eyes.

The barren ground gives me no reason to rise,

and I touch nothing that satisfies.

The shoes that hurt and clamp on my feet,

painful, black leather's the only thing I meet.

Smiling every day is such a great feat,

sad words in thousands of ink-stained sheets.

Uncountable, the laughs.

Unforgettable, the scowls.

Undeniable, the acts.

Undetectable, the frowns.

Step in the warm sea,
Sit still in the shallow parts...
You'd never swim deep.

Triangles are polygons but you tell me they're round...
and I believe you.

There's more to everything than straight lines.

Beautiful's an adjective but you tell me it's a noun...
and I don't doubt you.

You tell me I make flat words come alive.

The sky is black at night but you tell me day is darker...
and you convinced me.

At day, even the brightest lights don't shine.

Rationality impressed me but now it's so absurd.
You and your false statements, but all truer than true.

A world with people and daily lies,
Rushing people day and night,
but so many truths left behind.

All the evil we try to hide
still reveals itself to the outside.
We hold it and we do try
but lies, like oil on water
Still float to rise.

It's not difficult to think of stopping
when the green light is on.

******* up on an everyday basis,
when everything should be easy,
only to end up with another crisis.

Spitting out the blame on everything
instead of swallowing it down,
just to avoid the bittersweet of it all.

A bubble harder than concrete,
Tears saltier than the Dead Sea,
the waves of frustration when
expectations and reality don't meet.

Lone wolf hunting down dead leaves,
Slumped on the forest ground.
Abandoning the will to retrieve,
Giving up on the wolf that believed.

**** the perfect cups of tea.
All that's left is bitter coffee,
Not my taste but life's not sweet.
I should get used to lifting weights
and doing tons of things I hate.

Not doing well and all but I'm
trying to survive because it's
me.

what a day,
we're all blue.
go away.
what'd you do?

it gets worse.
they complain
like a horse,
an endless neigh.

you wanna die?
take the pills.
you can try,
you can ****.

too bad i'm here.
it's too early.
you chase death,
you're getting near.
i run after you,
out of breath.

please slow down.
you rush things.
don't die now,
it's too early.
don't give up.

they see you run,
it's a normal thing.
they saw one.
faster, running,
she caught death.

they weren't surprised.
i want them to be.
blinded eyes,
let dying people be -
but don't let them be.

see the sickness,
i beg you now.
save some happiness,
give them crowns
for living still and
not getting there
(to the place we
start giving
up).

I'm glad I was too big for your box of lies.
I'm glad I didn't fit in.
Hopefully I don't shrink so you
don't shove me inside.

The rope I'm gripping tightly have
taut fibers twined around each other.
I wove them that way, meticulously.
One string after another, its form gathers,
and I'm proud of my craft.

I've used it to save myself and others,
pulling and tying knots, anchoring.
A tightrope to dance on over and over,
Tugging, stretched, fighting, breaking,
but my rope's getting slippery.

I've used it so much it's hard to hold on.
It's overused and now
everything's
going
wrong.

Only a matter of time before I can cut it
without effort,
just one scissor,
and it's no more.

I'll tie it back together but I can only try so hard.
It's wearing down, going gone.
It withers and soon I'll have none.
Nothing to save me, or them
if I start abusing it again.

i've an oily face
pimples growing everywhere
i am very stressed