Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I hate that you look at the galaxies
and are overwhelmed with a feeling of
dull insignificance,
because if anything,
you are not just a speck of dust scattered in the cosmos.
you are the very substance
that this universe is thrilled to be written about.
you are its incandescent gas,
you are nuclear fission,
you are a galaxy's lifeline,
it's reason to celebrate living in the darkness,
baby, your every breath is intergalactic motivation,
that if you were to stop smiling
I'm almost certain that a star dies as well.
and in the magnitude of spectacular phenomena this universe will never cease to offer,
somewhere out there,
I promise someone notices.
some late night mind ****, so raw, so rough.
May 2015 · 2.0k
When I said you could think of me as your therapist,
I meant, could you leave the room and I’ll make notes?
Allow me to turn
Watching you leave
Into a profession.
Mind you, I’m pretty good at this job.
There’s the creaking of the floor panels
Under your converse,
The jingle jangle of car keys
In your back pocket,
And the death-like glow of light bulbs
Seeping through the door hinges
Of when you exit.
But you didn’t notice any of this.
You hardly broke a sweat.
On the other side of the room,
My tears are stars
And the sound of your departure
Has me painting
On my cheeks,
Turning my chest into steel
Until you’ve convinced yourself
That God locked this heart in a cage.
Don’t worry (I know you don’t),
I am built for this,
For your soapy self
Slipping in and out of my life.
And it will happen again.
I have my notepad with lists of
Heartbreaking theories and
Scientifically correct ways
Of sending you off.
And when I will,
Know that it’s just
What every good therapist does.
The first sentence is a line from the book ‘No Object’ by Natalie Shapero.
Oct 2014 · 1.7k
Elegy to My Sleep
My friends
Write of lovers they miss
I don't.
I write
Of a knight in shining armor
Who has
So peacefully rescued me
It pains me
That in these next few days
Away from his embrace
I am left
Staring at his weaponry:
Hot dog pillows
With them,
He's won many battles.
But now I'm back here,
Locked up in this tower of
Unfinished requirements.
The essays
Have destroyed the stairwell.
Lab reports
Have blocked up my doors
And he left me,
Sleep left me
A damsel in distress
With caffeine and homework
Running in my bloodstream.
I peek out of my window,
Stare at the ground below,
Still not a sign of Sleep anywhere.
My friends
Write of lovers they miss
I don't.
I write of one I miss
Every night.
What has hell week done to my poetry?
Sep 2014 · 2.3k
I'm pretty sure
Eyes glaring
At the surface of my soul
Isn't supposed to feel
Any less like a stabbing to the heart.
But it does.
You have cupped
My burdens
In both of your hands
And sprinkled them over
The driest corners of my mind,
Watered them,
And let them grow
Into something lovely.

I'm pretty sure
That every hiccup of an
'I miss you'
Isn't supposed to
Cause my blood
To blush warm.
But it does.
You toy with words
In the best way
Making sure each syllable
Is coated in
Silky persuasion
And I try,
Believe me, I do,
To let them sink
Into this heart,
You've called beautiful
Far too many times.

I'm pretty sure
Your lips have quivered
And tired of
Grinning encouragements
And whispering warmth
And uttering
'I love you's
But they haven't.
For this, I am pleased.
And this fluttering thing
Residing in my chest
Can't find a way out
To tell you,
To thank you.
The falter of her step
Will trigger a
Mini tsunami.
There still is
The sound of gravel hitting stone
Brick upon brick;
Beautiful noise, too.

She'll cause the world to
Stop and stare
Either way.
Sep 2014 · 1.7k
Dear Girl,
Is that you?
I knew that smelled familiar.
It's your heart again, isn't it?
I can almost imagine it
Helplessly perched
On the palms of your hands.
It reeks of heartache.
You should really get that checked.
It means
You believed in a boy again.
And I don't know
How those lies
Made it's way to the port,
Hopped on a ferry,
And voyaged to your bloodstream,
Making it's way to the arteries of
Whatever it is you have left
In your hands.
But it's fine.
Don't blame him.
Don't blame you.
You're both
A lot quicker than your skin expected
You have cuts and wounds but
Don't panic, I've got the thread.
It's time for the stitches.

What happened to your hands?
Did you play with fire?
Did you test the waters and were they hotter than you expected them to be?
At least
You know that love
Was never really a game of trial and error.
The realest kind only comes around
About once or twice.
And I know your hands
Liked to fiddle around with the idea
That it would only be him.
For a while it was.
But that fire was extinguished.
And it's nice to hope that some flames would last forever
My darling, you deserve the sun.

What happened to your eyes?
They don't sparkle how they used to.
I know the sight of him
Knocked the wind right out of you
And lifted your spirits so high
And filled you up with enough electricity
To power that spark.
But the opportunities to gaze at him
Are only so temporary.
Things only glitter
When they're exposed to
The Light.
So, better fix those eyes on the
One thing
That is eternally bright.
Trust me, when you do, the tears
Will evaporate from your eyes,
Making everything clearer,
And the world will start to make sense again.

What happened to your ears?
You've pierced and stuffed them with
All the wrong syllables.
I know those phrases and letters
Sounded like a good idea for a while.
Maybe you heard them at the
wrong time.
Maybe they were never meant for you.
I know how it stings.
But uncover your ears because
There are people who still want to tell you more
Beautiful truths.
You must listen.
The sight of the word "people"
Makes you wish I meant him.
But my darling, I can only
Assure you that there is someone
Out there
Carrying all the right words
In the pockets of his hoodie.

All you need to do now is
Be still.
You are a princess.
For a while, you've kept your head down
And your crown
Is slowly slipping from it.
But a day will come when your heart will
Heal from the lies,
Your eyes will sparkle,
Your hands will work again,
Your ears will only hear songs
And it will all be because
You waited.
Let me tell you, my darling,
True love is more than worth it.
Keep your chin up.
You can't miss it.
I shouldn't be writing spoken word pieces at 2 in the morning but this is dedicated to someone special to me. Someone as beautiful as her needs to know she deserves only the best.
Aug 2014 · 3.0k
Dear Building
I remember when you told me to
let it go
The words slipped out of your mouth but never did you let pride slip out of your fingers
I know, because every syllable still stings
The surface of my heart.

Mr. Building, you let go.
Allow the wind to blow against your hair and
create wrinkles on your clothing
But never let it
Knock the dreams right out of you
I believe in them and never will I
Even stutter those words to you
Me take your hand and help you carry those burdens
Don't ever drop your ceramic hope,
Cling on to your glassy aspirations because dreams
Are made of fine china
So precious
So fragile
So so so beautiful
Please don't let  your chin fall to the ground.
Lift yourself up,
Because the world deserves to see
How tall He's built you
But prove to them
That when the earthquake comes,
You height's got nothing on your
And if telling me to let it go
Is to break me back into concrete,
Then by all means demolish these
Stories and hammer through these
Because every broken window
Is worth seeing you succeed.
It'll hurt me to the very ground,
But your standing tall
Will help me recover.

I remember when you told me to
let it go
Your breath smelled of coffee.
I can tell you've had a rough night.

And maybe
Just maybe
you spent
those sleepless nights
Deciding whether you should
Let it go, too.
It's late and my mind only knows how to speak in metaphor.
Jul 2014 · 1.2k
I love how
Paint chips off the
Walls of this house
And how my sneakers
Are dirtied,
Maybe even torn at the edges
With their laces in fringed bouquets
Or how
My friendship bracelets are tarnished
And my books have coffee-stained, tampered pages
And I don't mind you
Or scratched,
Speckled with flaws,
With wrinkles when you smile
Or your childhood memory's scars
Or the dark circles under your eyes
Or your rough hands
You've been worked to the bone
There is nothing more beautiful than something that has served it's purpose.
What makes people beautiful isn't what they would normally think.
Jul 2014 · 1.2k
You are the hurricane in my chest
That can't seem to move along.
Your winds
Mess with the way my heart beats
But I wouldn't want it
To pump your love any way else.

You are that
Killing feeling at the pit of my stomach.
But I would
Deprive myself
of the most delectable words
If it meant keeping these butterflies forever.

You are the fallen eyelash
On my eyeball.
I can see you.
I can feel you.
With the slightest movement,
I know where you are.
But I can't seem to get you out
And the more I try,
The more it hurts,
The more I convince myself
To let you stay.
Jul 2014 · 1.6k
The Last Dance
I watch my mother
Watch the colorful static buzz
Out of my television Set.
It was a show about dancing and synchronized steps
Bending bones
And malleable movements.
The screen was painted
With graceful bodies
And it echoed of
hip hop music
And I watch my mother
Scratch her head cause
She could never really get her
hips to hop
And she didn't know how that was different from
the pop
and the lock
and the shuffle
and the dougie
And I heard her murmur under her breath
"This is my biggest frustration"

I guessed that's what people say
When they just can't get something Right.
The feeling
The longing
The want is in them,
But their body
Still tells them to trip over their
Two left feet
When they watch
The way I watch my mother
Want to be a dancer

And I watch my mother
shake it off
and smile
and change the channel
And it is the saddest thing in the universe to me
That she could just forget
that one thing
she so desperately wanted to be.

Are my biggest frustration.
That no matter how hard I seem to try
I just couldn't get you right.
I swear, staring at you
Makes my eyelashes
Flutter a hip hop beat like no other
But you just can't dance
To music you can't hear
And you can't see
This amazing
I have mapped out for us in my head
I know you're great at that.
You can
Shuffle and dougie
as far away as possible from me.
But just like my mother who couldn't get her hips to hop,
I couldn't get you lips
To talk about
Anything that wasn't her
And I know your mouth can speak
But why are you so at loss for words
When the lyrics come
Are my syllables not worth your breath,
Is my rhythm not worth your
I promise you I try to catch up
But I trip over my two left feet
When I see your eyes glisten
When you watch her
The way my mother watches the dancers and I know you wanna be with her

So you finally hear my music
Or so I am convinced that you do.

And you shuffle
And take each graceful step
To the beat of
The wrong heart

But I just can't change the channel.
I can't smile and shake it off
Because I have to wait and see
If there'll ever be a time
You'd dance to me.
I hope to perform this one day.
Jul 2014 · 4.1k
There will come a time
When the one who planted you
Will be nowhere to be found.
You'll wonder
Why they'd left you
As such a little sprout.
But then you'll start to realize
That maybe it's your time to
Without someone to water you.

Maybe it's time to rely on the rain.
Goodbye to one of the first few people who believed in my writing! Wherever you may go next, I hope you will water many others, like you did with me.
Jun 2014 · 3.3k
Dear Mr. Bookworm
He looked at me
The way you look at
Stacked books
On a wooden shelf,
Carefully stroking my spine
After he's done it to
Three other stories
he'd gotten tired of.

Mr. Bookworm,
I am not a fictional option.
Yes, my cover is
And my last reader
Folded and tampered
With all my pages,
I only wish you'd
Treat this piece of literature
With respect.
You see, Mr. Bookworm,
I'm not a trilogy,
At least I'm not sure yet.
My Author isn't quite done with me. And I find it quite rude
That you stare at my papery insides,
Page after page,
Only to leave me
Back in the shelf,
Collecting dust.
Be patient with me, wandering reader.
Wait for my story
To reach it's ******.
Inhale my aging pages
Until you reach my resolution.
My apologies
For the times I've been
But wait with me
Till you've reached my story's ending.
Because I swear upon my
Mismatched table of contents,
It will be a story worth telling.
Jun 2014 · 2.8k
What Flaws Once Were
While you worry
For someone
To see past
Your flaws,
I will be locked
In the embrace
Of someone
Who took the time
To look at them hard enough,
To caress the very surface of
To  dig skin-deep
Until he found
What once made the flaw
May 2014 · 1.6k
My hair fall shampoo
Didn't quite work
This time around.
May 2014 · 1.6k
And He fetched for my heart
That was beating,
Lub dub
Banging until cracks
into a hole
Around my chest.
No longer
Lub dub
But a panicked
Hop hop,
Leg-less run marathon
Out of my rib cage.
Pumping worry
And jealousy,
Replacing my blood,
Until anxiety rowed
broken sail boats
In my veins.
He grabbed it
Said "Stop."

And that's how the heart learned
How to play the waiting game.
[ uh-rith-mee-uh, ey-rith- ]
noun [Pathology]
1. any disturbance in the rhythm of the heartbeat.
May 2014 · 766
The Almost Wreck
Maybe it was the
Fated curl of a clouds lips
That blew wind
At the precise moment
On the ragged sail
And pushed this vessel
To the raging seas,
Towards stormy nights,
And took me
Where I needed to go.

Despite the odds,
This broken boat,
Cracks and crevasses,
Made it's way to You.
Mar 2014 · 5.9k
Life and Lemonade
When life gives you lemons,
Because there is only so much you can get out of lemonade.
Take your time measuring
The sugar
To balance out
The sour taste that
Until after.
And if you make a mistake,
If it seams the sour still screams,
Remember that it
For you to
Every next sweet sip.
There will be unwanted pulp.
Don't drain it out.
And there will be spills,
So many spills
Until all sweet
And all sour have run out.
But wait.
Because life always has more lemons
To throw right your way.
An old poem I like to revisit to remind me how my life sort of works. Written as one humongous chunk of a metaphor, as usual.
Feb 2014 · 1.1k
Love Has Already Fallen
Little girl,
Love is not a race track
That will leave you
Around in circles.
There is no finish line.
Love is the spooky road
Less traveled
With thorny bushes
That ***** the very surface
Of a well-cared for
Love is
Not what you expect it to be.
But walk step by step
Down the cracked up land
Of that torn up road
And at the very end,
You'll find
Gleaming under bright sunlight.
Little girl,
Such fragile fingers
Cannot grasp on to light
No matter with skin-tight grip.
You're going to want to touch
And you're going to want to grab
But little girl,
Love isn't about touch
Or skin intertwined
But about compassion
And sacrifice
And words meant
That crawl around your heart
Like vines and
Vines need that promise of sunlight
To grow.
And grow
And grow some more.
You see, little girl
Growing takes time
And if you'd only steady the
Pitter patter of your
Ecstatic heartbeat
Then maybe you'd stop ruining love
With impatience
With desperation.

For now,

You were left with something
I'm sure will make your heart content.
Stop looking around, little girl
Love is not a scavenger hunt
Love isn't something you can find
Love has found you.
Go ahead,
Fall in love.
But little girl,
Let me show you that
Love is rain during drought,
Love is light when all has darkened,
And while you're falling in love,
Love is the manna from heaven

That has already fallen

In the form of a Cross.
This poem just flowed. A little messier than usual but it flowed, and it needed to be written.
Love is He who is the greatest sacrifice of all time.
For love month, I didn't want to forget what Jesus did all because He loves us.
Feb 2014 · 1.4k
If Trees Were Insecure
I am a tree
That is still learning how to
Keep it's roots
Under moist soil
And away from little tripping feet.
I'm used to
In the morning
My branches
Until they have
Dropped the apple
Slightly too far from the tree.
And though I don't have
Much air
In my hair,
The leaves still fall.
Trust me when I say
It isn't worth it being this
Sometimes I would long to pay
To not see everything.
The view from up here
Is ironically

Climb these heights
And I can't promise you no
Twigs in your hair
Or scratches on your arms.
This bark is rough
And these leaves,
But the next time you
Stumble upon these roots,
Remember that I am the tree
That isn't all it looks.
I promise You
I'm going to
By who You are today,
With the colors of Your promises,
Jump rope
To the music of purpose in my heartbeat,
And weigh
The value of Your steadfast love.


Is the last thing I want to be
For You.
I can carry my paint,
My jumprope,
And my scale to
Of this world
Just to prove
To every living soul
That You're more than just
A hero in a storybook.
1.  My mind is a 20/20 vision pair of eyes.
I can see the specks
and seeds of irritation before they grow.
They were never really good for these eyes.

2.  Let's go to the moon.
And I assure you,
While you sink your feet in moon dust
And swim in empty craters,
While I worry about how dark it is out here,
I get to enjoy the simultaneous twinkle of the stars.

3.  And because I'm paying too much attention,
I might even get to see one fly.

4.  You're thinking about how delicious this lunch is.
I'm counting calories.

5.  So,
what's for dinner?

6.  Hey, if she is
Stabbing my back
With word weapons,
My 561-letter comeback speech
Is always ready
in the front pocket
Of my school bag.

7.  Its always  just a headache,
Never brain cancer.

8.  I love the newly opened eyelids,
In the mornings,
My first breath is a sigh of relief,
I didn't die in my sleep.

9.  She's got a great body.
Her bones read,
No food and a ton of gym time,
I'm sure it's to make you smile.
And I hate to brag,
But I'm mentally fit.
I get to exercise
Analyzing every single detail
Of the twinkle in your eye
Of the flick of your lips
Of the depth of that frown
When you said
you were leaving.

10.  I think I've figured out why.
Jan 2014 · 1.0k
lunar sympathy
Frozen fragments
Icily dispersed
As beads that necklace
The moon.
The gleam
Of light reflected
The lacy ring
With smudge-faded
Rainbow colors.

"Beautiful", they all say.

But poor Luna,
Who shows up every night.
Only considered wonderful,
Because of a mere circle of light.
There was a ring around the moon tonight.
Jan 2014 · 2.7k
The Thing About Daydreaming
How far can
take me?
There is something
About streaming down
Dream dimension
In the light of day.
Will it fly me to a point of
Every rainbow I've painted?
Can I taste
Every ambition
In the hopes that they haven't spoiled?
If I dream hard enough,
Can I live in the castle
I've thought up with fantasy?

Dreaming feels safer.
The sun can keep warm my
And the next day,
Every bite,
Is just a dream away.
Jan 2014 · 968
Words for Sale
Are puzzle pieces with wings,
They reside
In the creative side
Of my cluttered mind.
Their hobbies include
And being
In parts of sentences
And poems
They aren't supposed to be.
They hate cooperation
But love dressing up
In vibrant
They're great as pets
Though they can be a handful.
Take them on walks,
Not with
But with pens.
So that way,
In a park made of pages,
If they ever get lost,
At least they're
Where they need
To be.
Jan 2014 · 832
Wishful Thinking
Oh, how great would it be
To fall so deeply in love
With the sky,
The clouds
Go out of their way
And firm up,
Netting themselves over the
In the hopes
To shelter me
From hitting
The solid groud.
Dec 2013 · 562
It's easy to say
One year
Two years
Three years
Is enough time to
Heal heartbreak,
Mend broken bones
Shattered by sticks and stones;
To clean an old slate.
But all it takes
Is a breath of familiar air

To spark a thought

To open wounds

That maybe,
*I still care.
Dec 2013 · 1.4k
There are over a hundred ways
To capture a moment,
To freeze time for a split second,
To remember.
Others paint pictures,
Sketch memories.
Art is a good tool for reliving.
You can hear laughter through paint strokes.
You can cringe at the anger pencil marks can so vividly create.
And even subtle color choice
Can send waves,
That will wash
every last trace you have of today
And push
you back so deep into yesterday.
Art is an illusion.
But my sister liked to take photographs.
She was able to grasp with two hands
That maybe cameras
aren't too different from paint brushes.
But while art sheds off illusion,
There was something
about the wholeness
of reality
photographs blew.
My sister captured images of me.
And even if you could see me
Wallowing in every form of happiness,
My sister could never really capture
Something always seemed to
Go beyond the frame.
Photographs showed the world
The way I like to twirl in summer dresses
Or the way my hair looked like tumbleweed whenever it decided to imitate the wind
Or how I was always more comfortable smiling
With teeth.
If you stare hard enough,
You'd see that, yes,
I am an ugly laugher,
And the
of my buck teeth flying everywhere
would distract you
From what I was laughing at.
Photographs are not the bigger picture.
Photographs can't show you
how I love indie music
Or how not-so-great I am at playing the ukulele
Or how I always save homework for later.

Seeing is believing, they say.
But don't ever
Not even for a second
Accept me
With arms wide open
For who you see in the photograph.
I imagined this as a Spoken Word piece. I have no idea when I can recite it, or if I will ever, but this poem was begging to be written. This poem is about me, no strings attached.  :)
Dec 2013 · 1.0k
Tongue Tied
For a poet,

I'm really struggling

With the right words to say

To you.
Dear Drearily Burdened Soul,
I want you to know
That every time you cry,
Each tear has the power
To pierce
Through every fiber of my being.
And I know it's hard.
I know it takes every ounce of you
to muster up that smile.
But every time you do,
Let me tell you
Those broken fibers
Like friendship bracelets
And I am whole again.
Dec 2013 · 544
I've watched the world
Everything I love
Into a changing embrace.
And I only hope that
One day,
S t o p s
Dec 2013 · 1.1k
Midnight Thoughts About Envy
My night was spent glaring at the stars
And at how they shine despite
The darkness that surrounds them.
I wonder if the stars ever envy the moon,
If they feel the need to shine
Or if they feel that they're good enough.
I hope they delight in the fact that they
Unlike any other.
Not even the moon.
And I wonder if the moon ever looks at the stars
And wishes on them to be like the sun.
I hope it basks in its talent
To rule over the night
Unlike any other.
Not even the sun.

I wonder if the stars envy the moon
And the moon envies the sun
And I hope they don't waste their sparkle
On wanting to be each other.
One gigantic chunk of metaphor
Nov 2013 · 3.8k
The Mockingjay
Eyes of fear,
Mouth of shock
Because I never saw it coming.
To the arena I return again,
My darkest horror already starting.
To my left,
I turn to see my mother,
Trying not to sob,
As I rethink the memories
I always had during summers
At the Hob.
Eyes wet,
Arms tired,
Barging through the door,
While picturing the future
And all the madness that's in store.
Gale and Prim,
My only treasures,
Are soon to say goodbye.
For this year in the Quarter Quell,
No more will there be a tie.
I'm deep in thought
As I review the words
For my last farewell,
When I realize a secret for Haymitch
That I can't wait to tell.
To protect Peeta
In this terrifying Quell
Is my one and only goal,
For I want him to come back to it
And live peacefully
In this district of coal.

To be strong is what I think of
While under the stars I lay.

To be strong
The only solution
For I am the Mockingjay.
I find this while looking through my 2011 notes. Quite timely, with Catching Fire showing in cinemas and all. I was and still am an avid fan, both of poetry and The Hunger Games. My style has evolved but it's nice to see that poetry has always somehow been a part of me.
Nov 2013 · 953
Night >
The night brings forth something beautiful.
Bamboo trees sway with the wind,
The lightbulbs have been dimmed,
But the moon comes to life
"It's my time to shine"
And while others
Are locked up in their blankets,
I have rocked up in their gentle
And their not so gentle,
The television
Is no longer humming with static
But instead the sound of crickets
Fills my ears with a buzz far better.
The curtains
Have long been pulled down
As if to keep out any more of the
My bed
Inspires clouds of thought.
Fish can fly
And birds can swim
And I am with you
And you are with me
And unlike in the mornings,
we are happy.

The moment my eye lids flap open,
When the curtains have been pulled up,
When the moon has gone back into hiding,
When the snores are replaced with laughter,
And the crickets no longer buzz,
I cannot wait to say good night again.
1 am is poetry hour, I guess.
Somewhere in the darkest corners
Of a speck of land
Shadowed on a world map,
There is a girl who still believes in wonder.

She is childlike faith vacuum sealed
In pint-sized hope
A revolution craving to be lit up,
A breath of fresh air to anyone who has lived through dirt and pollution,
A livewire of well-kept new ideas.

She is a book.
A good one but a closed one.
A book that sits on the front shelves at bookstores
But nobody dared to read between her lines.

But other than the galaxies of impossibilities she has sketched up in her head,
She is nothing more than short of perfection,
Her hopeful whispers needed a microphone.

She believes in the hustle and bustle of success in her little speck of land
Impossible, it may seem
as she IS a speck
in a sliver of land
in a country that is almost always forgotten by anyone who has browsed through a map,
Disregarded by other countries
Abandoned by its own people
But forget the size on a scale of the earth.
Little as she is,
to her, her speck of land is big enough
Big enough to fill with all the love a person is capable of.
Big enough to fill with hands that held each other tight enough to be called unity
Big enough to be filled with more confidence in the country
than pride in personality.
In fact, the word "big" is too little
To describe the way she sees things.

She believes in herself
But she also believes that she is small.
And insanely enough, she believes she can be both
That her individuality for a stand out country
Could not be limited by
A weak immune system
Or the amount of inches she grows in a year
Or the color of her hair.

Yes, when the world gets tough,
And when everything larger
Turns against her
Pressing her into a cage of painful pressure,
She helps herself
By sticking her hand out for the very people who make her weak.
Because courage turns into cowardice
If it is not used to stand up for others.

And though she is small,
That only means she could make her way through
The narrow roads
In a tricky path called life.
Bending when branches of trouble swept above her,
Crouching when the rain poured,
And slipping into deep spaces.

But more importantly,
Overpowering all her beliefs,
She believes in something higher,
In something much stronger than the strength of her imagination,
In something that could turn her plans into a reality,
And the best part of it all is that this "higher force"
Is a He
And He believes in her
Much more than she believes in Him.
She holds her plans for this country in a teapot,
But He is the One who pours it over us
Until this cup, this country, overflows.

She believes this country is ready.
And as for Him, well,
So does He.

But no matter how wondrous she makes the future of this country seem,
We are still everything she didn't say we would be.
So, scavenge your heart for the truth,
Dig around for treasure and hope,
Seek high and low for even the little shards of faith,
Because one day,
We might just find her
In you and in me.
"How can young Filipino Christians demonstrate leadership and contribute to nation building?"

This poem was my answer in the finals of my school's spoken word poetry competition.
Oct 2013 · 2.4k
We are unlike the rest.
Yes, I know that's what the rest say.
But unlike the rest, we are not glued together.
Instead, we are stitched together.
Stitched so that every string
Is smoother than the furrow
Of bitter eyebrows.
Stitched so that if one of us wanders off,
It would only take the tug of a string
To bring us back together.

Unlike the rest, we are a medley of forgiveness.
Because with us,
Mistakes come in a handful,
Each painted a different color of disappointment.
But it only takes
Jumps into pools fully clothed,
Random trips to the museum,
Hangout on rooftops
To make it all better again

Unlike the rest, we are craziness
Well-mixed with a spoonful of loyalty.
An odd mix, enough to taste the sweet
Amidst the sour
So that insults come easy
But if one of us trips on nothing,
The rest of us will follow to help you back up.
After laughing, of course

Unlike the rest, we aren't actually friends.
There should be a word
For people who care out of understanding,
Who laugh outside things that are funny,
Who will be there even when they physically aren't

We are not like the rest because the rest call us friends.

And they say friends are forever
But we are the people who beg for much longer.
Apparently, it's national best friends day. This is dedicated to the people who are much more than friends to me.
Oct 2013 · 2.0k
Bunny Ears and Tails
To everyone else who used it to seal a present,
It was nothing more than
A color to choose
A length to measure
A string to knot
It was something that held together a treasure
But to her, a ribbon was so much more

The triangular slit
She herself had cut at the edge
Of the soft pink ribbon,
Ended in corners,
The way her smile did
Everytime she'd
Loop and pull
Loop and pull

The bows she'd craft
Were more to her
Than just bunny ears and tails.
They were trinkets of triumph
Hints of hope
Possessions of passion

They reminded her of spring
Not the season
But spring
Of the trampoline
In her first gymnastics competition.
The ribbon hugged her ponytail
Delicate and dainty
The ribbon lay around her neck holding
Ribbon nonetheless

They reminded her of balloons
Not the hot air type.
Balloons at carnivals
That floated
Miles away
Heights astray
If there was not ribbon
To secure it tight
On her fragile wrist

They reminded her of father.
Not that he wore ribbons or anything.
But that he left her with one
Wrapped around
A freshly picked
Bundle of flowers
Bundle of happiness
Bundle of unspoken words of affirmation

But flowers die

And so did father

When they did,
She was left with nothing but the ribbon
Loose and dirtied.
But the pinkness
Unlike flowers and father,
Barely faded away

And for the first time in a long time,
She saw life
In something that didn't have any.
This is actually my homework for literature class. We need to write a poem about an ordinary item. I hope I made it sound extraordinary enough.
Oct 2013 · 1.1k
"Is That You?"
I didn't mind stepping on
Grass, dirt, differences,
And broken promises
the whole night
If it meant I could see the faces
That have become all too unfamiliar.

It was like looking at the night sky
For the billionth time
Except the stars that you knew had their places,
No longer did.
But the sky was still beautiful

Your voice
Pierced through me the way it always has
But with words that no longer made sense,
Words that forced it's way
Through a crowd of people you called

There was no problem with that, I tell you
My heart sank to the soles of my feet
In uncertainty
You never liked that word,
You once told me that we were better off

I grasped your hand for the first time
Since the last awkward silence,
And shook it.
Except you returned it with a grip
That felt like it belonged to someone else.
You smiled a smile that wasn't yours
Your teeth shone a light more strobe than candle

You told stories of laughter
But they were no longer about our adventures of fighting dragons and saving the helpless.
They were about jumping into the lakes
Not to enjoy the water
But to show off that new tan and flaunt that new body

And I could have sworn
Amidst the chaos you presence caused
And the enthusiasm of your story telling,
I heard you introduce yourself to me again.
But it sounded like you were saying:
"this my name but this is no longer my personality"

As my heart sank, my hopes followed
Because I was certainly standing before
A person with a piercing personality
A person with the same hands and the same feet
A person who lit up the whole room
A person who was, undoubtedly, beautiful

But that person was no longer
Oct 2013 · 1.7k
Girl of Glitter and Grace
Is the apple of a selfish man's eye
The one every girl despised,
An excuse for the jealous stirring
They felt in their bones
Every time she strode
Head high
Chin up

Carried a backpack of never ending jokes
Wherever she stopped by
And the only giggles she could
Out of the mouths of her helpless followers,
Were the genuine types,
The laughter
Depression and tension

Bloomed in ball gowns
And party dresses
She could keep her heels well shined
While still
On the dance floor
Nothing but glitter
And glam
And a girl with passion and desire

This is how the world saw her
Watching from a car window
Nothing but her appearance and facade
Her, at the least of what she was

Behind the curtain of
Her hair and humor blessed her with,
Was a landscape of
Her for what she is

And if you tried hard enough
You would see that

She captures the heart more than any set of eyes.

She could make you laugh hard enough
To make the lemonade pour out of your nose.

She could sing up your spirits with a melody that goes "you are beautiful".

She could rock the formal attire society required,
But she looked far more joyous in sweatpants and rock concert t-shirts.

She is jolly more than giggles
She is grace more than glitter
She is beauty more than pretty

My, if you met her,
You'd called it blessed rather than lucky
Oct 2013 · 3.8k
A mirror is never just your reflection,
My mother once said
The mind has this devilish way of
Things around
Making then a lot more or a lot less
That what stands before me
My face isn't my face anymore
I stare blankly at a blueprint
Society itself has hand-sketched
For me.
Post-it's on where things had gone wrong
Scribbles on things I needed less of
Highlighters on places I needed
Brighter brights
Thinner thins
And I just stood there
As these self-proclaimed architects
The plans they had for a body that wasn't theirs.
The new rooms they had drawn next to the ones that already existed,
The ones that were always there
The ones I made a home out of,
The mole on my ear
That never seemed out of place
The impact of a critical post it told me so.
The place where my thighs met
I've always ignored,
Assuming I was normal
But the scribbles that
For less of me,
Proved otherwise.
The marks of stretched skin
I considered battle scars over a few calories at a buffet table
By society's architects
As if it were up to them
Like human came in the form of overruns
But I stare at this blueprint that suggests to change me from
Floor to floor
Head to toe
And wonder
If the one who owns the lot in which I am
If He wanted to change me anymore than them
If He liked the original rooms
More than the ones carved to fit the trends
If He wanted me to ignore the architects
And the drafts of copies
And copies
And copies
Of different versions of me

Didn't He want me to accept the mirror for who I am?
Oct 2013 · 2.3k
The picture frame is slanted
Because every time I tried to make it straight again
I remember the moment
In the photograph
When it was
You and I

I remember all the things
You weren't
In all the things
That were
And I see the start of my

The clothes are hanging out
In the sun
And i watched as the same light that dried them
The spark we once had

But that wasnt the only spot
In the house
The house of flaw and misunderstandings
The house that still echoed "i love you"'s
That you didn't mean

That wasnt the only spot
That reminded me of where it all went wrong
Because upstairs
My blanket is messy
I spent
Night after night
Thinking of when it would cover the both of us again

In the living room
I have gifts left unopened
Because I spent the entire Christmas morning
Of what I could give back to you

And even the narrowest corner
In the abandoned attic
My guitar seemed only to have five strings
And I wondered
Could something incomplete
Sound so beautiful

But our love
Wasn't like that

I had to remind myself time in
And time out
That bluberries don't start out ripe
There was a time your porcelain teeth
Bit into the plump berry
And it didnt quite taste right
But you kept chewing even with your face
Splattered with the unripe juice

Is what it was like
Is what we were like

Because our love was a lot like the time
I ran out of acrylic paint
But the watercolors I replaced them with
Made every other picture

— The End —