Describing you as things that are meaningful to me.
You are my Rose Colored Boy,
The blue to my gold.
The pink couch I wished I had room to own.

You are— the late nights watching Friends all alone,
The smell of mornings and the cold.
The pouring rain when I'm all warm and cozy at home.

You are,
The piece of writings I am proud of,
The feeling of my favorite gel pen on paper,
Eloquent words I use in my poems.

You are the sunset on my lucky days,
A warm hug— an embrace.
All the feelings of happiness,
And the sound of waves.
You are all the things I adore,
Keeping them safe.

I guess from the times that you taught me things a dad should've;
I started to rely on you.
From changing the bulbs,
To putting a bookshelf together.

I remember seeing you smiling,
Though god knows how you're hurting.
Painting and moulding two different canvases alone,
From a single flower to spring.

You taught me things I didn't knew,
From how to tie my shoe,
To loving with every inch of you.

I guess some people got lucky with two,
But don't you worry, I've always got you.
Happy Father's Day, mother.

Hi, I'm an insecure poet
Just like I don't like myself
I don't like my poetry
I don't know but sometimes
My poems aren't just it
They are unclear and weird
Like my personality is
They're short and stout
Just like I look physically
They sometimes rhyme too much
Like I overdue too much
Sometimes the free verses
Seem like the amateur I am
And everything's clichéd
Like my creativity got ******
They're hairy and dark
And ugly and scarred
But most of the time
They're just all over
All over excellence
Just like my neighbour
Is all over men
And I try too hard
I get all over it
But when I let go
No matter that I'm fat
The breeze carries me forth
No matter that I'm dark
I shine
And my creativity
Crawls out of crevices  
To create poetry
That warms the soul