My eyes, like camera lenses, can focus on sole object and blur the rest

For so long,
you are all I saw
For so long,
you were the focus
For so long,
I thought I was yours too

But just now
I realized that it was my imagination

but still
when I tried to blur you
and focus on the world
the other things that actually matter

you still are the focus
the crystal clear form
while the rest of the edges are blurred
through my broken camera lenses.

9-11-2001

the ugliest numbers

the last minute good-byes

Sudden crash all red and black

Falling bodies thumping agonies screeching

No innocent nor guilty nor black nor white nor asian nor latino

no lines

just the blind eyes of death

fueling getting bigger becoming stronger eating and taking more and more and more and more

subdued quiet memorial

reconstruction better rise of the new

still

when this moment comes

red and black and dead

the ugliest numbers

9-11-2001

when you die
  where does the soul go?

back in the soil
to grow out as a beautiful daffodil

up to heaven
to reunite with your loved ones

below the earth
to enter the gates of the Underworld

into someone else's heart
to spread the legacy

when you die,
   where does the soul go?

because I will search every plant, fly up to any distance, dig every grain of dirt,  delve into everyone's heart

to find your soul once more.

I wish I could write
in an effortless way of a transient thought

release the anger, release the pain
in some agonizing yet delicate scream
all conveyed in typed words

I wish I could write
but the unbridled passion only is just my passion
not talent

the emotions capturing me into a haze
yet the words refuse to come
only the feeling, the moment's exhilaration disappearing in thin air  

I wish I could write
well enough not to doubt myself and have inner brain debates against myself
that only momentarily quiet in my blissful sleep

I wish I could write...

they say that monsters live under our beds
or in our souls
or in us
but they are wrong.

monsters live in the dusty corner of the old memory lane
it lives in his fleeting but indifferent smiles
it stitches back the broken heart in an old band-aid
already used and covered in dried blood

monsters live in the notes of an old lullaby that mother used to hum
it drifts within the chilled November air of the time she gone to heaven
it breathes the familiar smell of burnt twigs and spray cans that decorates her tomb

monsters live not in the souls of our hearts
but around the souls of the gone and the dead

we think their memories are safely tucked and locked
the key thrown all the way in the middle of the Pacific Ocean

but no,
it always comes back
at night
through our hollowed brain
we see them
not the beautiful humans they once were
but as hideous monsters, slowly eating up our hearts

I am done telling lies
the outer shell is thicker
than the broken bulb inside

the light is out
the heart is dead

the thin film only holds itself high
the dead inner ignored and unburied

the locked, glorious empire emboldened with gold and silver
adorned with the flowers grown from the Garden of Eden
within the lingering scent blended with the thrilling chirping of the bird

the haggard man in the darkest corners of LA's scariest
trying to breathe despite the strong odor of ***
licking the burnt part of the cinnamon roll dropped accidentally from a red coat's pocket
only possession being a rusty old key from his father years back

the secret palace: the new buzz in Hollywood, New York
billionaires spending millions looking for this key
a peculiar shape, indeed, impossible to mold
just one key, the world is upturned

the man, living on months-old underwear and torn coat
broke, tired, poor, hungry
until a red coat offers him something else,
a hand, a place to stay, and a day's meal

red coat, lives in the ghetto
still with a roof, a table,  and a book
the red coat is happy with the minimum wage at Burger King

In return for the kindness
the man gives the red coat a key
not much, just to show gratitude
***** and rusty
a peculiar shape indeed...