Sweet and salted
Like you wanted
We watch in silence
We aren’t holding hands
You shiver lightly
Move right beside me
I feel your body heat
My heart skipped a beat

Your hand feeds
me metal
Your hand like a petal
I say I’m not hungry
You say it’s for your own good honey
You plaited my hair
I cut it like I wanted
You say I’m ruined
I feel you’re intruding
You throw the china
I feel it still

Popping candy
Medicine moonlight
I’m wearing white lies
Doll faces with red smiles

I am obsessive
Though my room is a mess
Please don’t touch a thing

Don’t make me
Change or conform
Because that is my fear

But I am obsessive
A creature of habit
Set schedules

A slow walker or
A bump in the road
And I may lose it all
  
Because I am obsessive
I will cry over
Spilled milk

My absolute weakness
Is embarrassment
Head down to walk

Will I be obsessive
When it all goes wrong
I surely will break

How can I live
When my world is
A mess in the neat lines

I’m obsessed with
Poetry- lines and stanzas
All in neat rows

All spaces and ink
Covering my paper
And, yes I am still obsessive

I was that
butterfly
you could have
caught with your
bare hands,
caress every part
of my wings
with your
rough fingers.
now I fly
thousands of
miles above you,
avoiding
your hands
forever

A love so fragile
That it hurts when I breathe
Shattered memories
Swept by the breeze

A love so scrambled
That it leaves me confused
My heart’s been abused
Black and blue bruised

A love so tangled
That it ends up in knots
A tied-up blood clot
Starting to rot

A love so unraveled
That it loses control
A physical toll
Burnt on my soul

A love so fragile
That is breaks when I try
Starting to know why
I do nothing but cry.

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

Modern Japanese
Haiku are less likely to
Follow syllabic norms

You never said it out loud,
But you said it with your eyes.
With your **** deep inside me.
You told me you loved me,
Arms wrapped around me tight.
Lips pressed against my own.

****,
You didn't have to say it out loud.
You promised me everything.
You promised me the world.
With your eyes
Your ****
Your arms
Your lips

They say talk is cheap,
But I guess I should have waited for you to say it out loud,
Before I started making assumptions
and ******* this up.

I like you better
if you treat me
not too seriously
it would bore me to death
such big-sounding words
and pompous philosophy
you should know and see
life is not about gravity
and there's a huge space
for fun and frivolity

so, if you wish to be
a friend of mine
drop all the insinuation
the flattery and insincerity
we'll meet and talk like pals
(no bull....) but genuinely.

as i looked at the mirror
i asked who are you?
nothing replied
it’s just me
too different
i can’t remember
the times where i recognize myself
i put on too much
mask for everyone
i kept listening to the same old music
i opened a door in my mind
cameras are flashing
on my eyes
i didn’t find someone
i just found myself
alone in darkness
where i could feel
everyone is watching
expecting me to create fire
when i only breathe ice
i thought if i pretended
that i was not a fool
and get up to
their expectations
i would be happy
but i didn’t i just caused
the real me to be lost
in paradise of hell
where the crowd is the judge
and you’re a contestant,
but they didn’t know
fools eventually
change the
world