Nana tells stories;
Papa reads books;
Mommy cooks me dinner;
Daddy makes me toast,
And we all joy together!

4-22-2020

Your tears ran down your face
Like water trickles down glass
My heart pours out for you
Like an overflowing brook
I will be your umbrella
I’ll shelter your from life’s rain
Now I’ve got you I’m not letting go
You steer,I’ll row .

Sinking to the ground,
With the surface turning wet,
I quickly found myself weeping,
Just moments before,
You questioned our compatibility,
You questioned how fragile our love is,
You suggested me finding someone better,
You suggested me to move on,
But it became clear,
You were questioning your strength,
You were questioning your heart,
You were questioning yourself for me,
I wiped off the tears,
Gathering all the strength,
Boosting up my trust for you,
I stood up,
Running towards you like crazy,
My eyes seeking your presence,
It is not over,
Not yet.

Pages turn,
chapters end,
books are finished.
With resolution, and head
held high, I'll
fly away to somewhere
safer, where there's
less pain.
I try to love you,
but you just
push me away.
The heart is a
silly dreamer.
It sees life as it
should be...could be,
and not as it
really is.
The head sees what
the heart doesn't.
Emotions can be as
treacherous as a
rabid dog or a
razor blade.
I wish I were a
redwood or a rosebush,
or even a dandelion
just
swaying in the
breeze.

I go back to that place

Through the green door
Enter the red brick house

Mikhu is still the little fairy
My eyes look for
And still my shyness
Forces me to look away
In her mother's presence

In the faraway attic
She furtively cooks me a meal
We make love
That brush our skin faintly

When I come out
She stands at the green door

Then upon the here
She is no more

Perhaps on an idle afternoon
when sadness lies heavy on chest
your eyes shimmering like crystal moon
upon my poems would come to rest.

Words of love and touching her shore
yearnings sharp as edge of knife
wrote my mind of twenty four
gathering all from a half seen life.

You flip the pages as years roll down
reach to where past high tides sailed
the ink flows soft as calm of dawn
in peace of void when heights are scaled.

You close the book breathing a sigh
your eyes are wet of misty dew
by then fallen twilight asks you why
the poet on the cover looks like you.