Punch holes in my heart,
Rip it off and make me wear it on a sleeve.
Place my name on your shirt,
Where you’d always remember me,
Every time your heart beats.

Tell me three things,
While I turn you into poetry,
That someday when you stopped seeing me,
In every corner of your room,
My name at the end of your crisp white sheets,
You’ll remember me.

... And how you spent weeks holding off the plan on calling your dentist for your next appointment.
Because a ‘hello’ over the phone,
Is already enough to swallow you whole.
Sometimes you wonder how,
Could you ever survive in a huge crowd.
Because on most days; going out seems like a bad dream coming true.
And doing grocery shopping with your sister is not as fun as it used to.

But they told you that it’s temporary.
Someday, you will break free.
From all the strings that you couldn’t recall being attached to your numb body.
But you wonder,
When will someday be?
When today you panicked when the ice cream worker at the usual ice cream parlor asked you,
“What flavor would it be?”
You ended up getting a brain freeze.
And you left without the ice cream.

It’s not just a person who you could avoid.
It’s not a ghost you could call help for.
Not the clothing item that someone gave you for your birthday that you shoved at the back of your closest because it does not seem like something that you’d wear.
It hangs around.
And they say that it wouldn’t last.

I couldn’t remember the last time I looked at myself in the mirror.
It really does felt like forever.
I have been avoiding my own reflection to restrain myself from thinking.
“When will I reach the point of perfection?”

I couldn’t remember the last time I wrote a poem.
But all I know of is that is what frustrates me the most.
Every time I try,
I would constantly rhyme.
Oh goodness have I lost it?
Why can’t I write?

I couldn’t remember gulping my uneasiness down my throat anymore,
They would all let out as a cry.
Or a prickle of tear.
Either it’s clammy hands,
Or fidgeting around with my fingers.
I can’t seem to get myself together.

I won’t get a grip.
Just bring me to my bed.
Where I would wrap myself in a blanket.
And sit still right there with my hollow mind.
Along with the cracks that made me.
Oh how divine shall this evening be.

mediocre and
faded
the average poem
no longer strikes chords
in the heart's harp
use extravagant vocabulary
weave your words tight
until they seem uncomfortable
the original meaning lost
between the claustrophobic corners
covered in lace and pretentious boasting
try but don't try so hard
that no one but the classic readers
would be able to understand
the words you've worked so hard to convey
do not force a poem out
or it will stick your fingers and
it will create a mess
similar to a teenage boy
it will be long and uncomfortable with itself
unknowing of how to adjust
into this thing that is supposed to be
mature now despite wanting to be simple
do not rush poetry
find quiet inspiration
in silent observations
of yourself, of nature
rushing poetry makes it fast
too many unfilled thoughts
racing around in one space
not meeting each other
despite being so close together
tell a story with imagery
with delicate words of morality
tell a story with flashbacks
with soft lips and with stained shirts
tell a story with love
make your poems with care

If you are looking for me
I will be at 3 am
with the poets
searching for the right words to illustrate emotion
with the painters
who feel words are not enough
with the doubters
staring at the ceiling, feeling they aren't worth it
with the prayers
looking to the light for the strength they rely on
with the dreamers
living with a whole universe in there head
with the believers
positive their dreams will come true
with the broken hearters
whose dreams fought with reality
with the troubled
finding it hard to shut their brain off

So if you are looking for me
the poets, the painters
the doubters, the prayers
the dreamers, the believers
the broken hearters, the troubled
and me
will all be
at 3 am

You pick on me,
Like strings.
Leaving none attached for me to pull myself together,
After the wreck.

I mean,
Do you really expect a mosaic,
To turn out like a sculpted angel?

So throw me all your words,
Use them as a weapon,
After all, I've already cut myself open.
I wouldn't need your bitter soul to tell me how much of the world I've taken.

And in return of your kindness,
I would take all of your pictures,
And shred them into pieces.
Throw them into the fire,
Along with your unrealistic expectations.
And watch it burn,
And burn;
Until the word doesn't linger.

You're not created only to write epistles of sad poetry and use too many metaphors,
Devoting them all to an address that won't write you back.
You're not made to be here to be held back.
Or to wait around for a call of your name from a voice that'll never bother to come around.
But you're made to love and to be loved,
To see things and to be seen.
To capture beauty in every way that is possible.
You were made to be.
And this is your call,
So be it.