there was a brief moment
in our acknowledgement
of each other
when everything felt right
a shared smile
and locked eyes

but

it was precisely this ease
of slipping back into
what once was
which made everything
so absurd

and the jolt in my heart
pulled my head down
as I stared at my feet
walking away from

you

I never write poetry
I write crap in line breaks

sometimes I feel very very small*

I am here
on the bed
a cocoon
fighting desperately to be a butterfly

you are there
a bird
big strong wings waiting
to eat me.

I am small
like a loose thread from an old sweater
moving against fingertips
you could roll me into a ball

and you are the smudge on the window pane
that this ball cannot wipe away.

I am the small drop on the shower head
clinging, trepid,
anticipating my great fall

you are the hairs on the shower drain
not going anywhere
stuck
hindering the flow.

I am small
and I am tired of you

I am sick of the parts of you still in me.

I am the cocoon
desperate
-ly fighting
to be

aching for freedom
I break my mattress cage

I crumble, choke, struggle
instead of fly

The feathers in my pillow
are yours

now,


smother me.

I write "you exist"
on the fragility of my wrist
because I need to remind myself
that this isn't a nightmare
and life has good parts too.

I need these words to fetter me
as if I were something solid
because I haven't felt that lately

I am the dead leaf
detached from branches
broken off from life

I am the echo in the mountain
too late
belonging to no one

I am the carving on the tree trunk
a reminder of a love already gone
fading, unnoticed

I am the falling star
burning, blazing
dead a million years.

I am nothing
but I exist.

I exist.

Static electricity is an imbalance
of electric charges

If your words are so weightless
why is it so hard to let go?

maybe love is static electricity

a transfer
in hopes of striking a balance.

erratic exchange
back and forth
insults and compliments
good and bad

static electric charge is created
when two surfaces contact and separate,
and one of the surfaces
has a high resistance to electrical current*

you got more than you gave
******* insulator
contact and separate

contact
separate
you left me, a hot wire
waiting to explode
starving for peace

and your lies are rubber balloons
sticking to my cotton heart

cloth grown thin from trying to scrape past
the rough edges of broken promises

and the more I try to wipe the lies
to see them clearly
the more they cling to me.

Like poison
I feel myself dying slowly
you are killing me
without even touching me,
the hair on my arms rising
from the chill of what you've become

I found a sketch
I did

of your face.

I am careful
as my fingers pinch the edge
feeling the straight line

one hand separating from the other.

I start from the top
and end in the bottom.
going the same direction as
us.

I am careful
as I rip away the shreds of you.

careful to destroy every semblance
to the face I tried to capture.

for the honesty that existed there
was one that my own hands
and eyes
added

and it is
in the mass of the irregular
white pieces
and gray lines

that I see the truth of you.

I grasp the pieces in my palms
and clasp
and feel
as they rest in the spaces
between my fingers

it is in this mass
of shapeless nothingness

that I begin to really feel

you.

like the legend of the phoenix, all ends with beginnings*
-Daft Punk

sometimes
my heart creeps into my mind
like young lovers' hands
reaching for palms and fingertips.

my mind tells me to forgive you
but my heart is heavy with pain

my mind tells me to accept what has happened
but my heart is full of memories

my mind explains the pain away
but all my heart does is feel

my mind tells me to forgive you.

it is seven twenty-four AM
there is a violin playing in the distance
and I am still haunted by you.

I am slowly letting you go though,
like feathers falling loosely
from my fingertips.

I watch you float slowly to the ground
where you can no longer hurt me.

I feel myself grow taller
as you lay beside my feet

and maybe someday a soft wind
will lift you slowly
into something else.

he knows it's justified
to **** to survive*

dark thoughts still come sometimes
but I think I'm going to be all right.

It's not that you're disposable or replaceable...he just chose to forget how special you are, what a good person you are, how beautiful you are inside and out. You are. You are. You are. Stop crying, you are. Perhaps he'll remember someday, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that you don't forget. You are worth it, beautiful. You are. You really are.

the truth is
I want to die
but the truth is
my death
would hurt more
people
than my life.

for in living
it is only I who suffers.

and I have discovered
that the greatest pain
is not in being hated,
but in being ignored.

and sadly
the only way for anyone
to really understand what I meant by that

is to live through a life
of being overlooked.

of speaking
and never being heard.

of wearing masks
so everyone can stand being around you.

of being constantly told
that you are fine
when deep down you know your truth.

of using tears
to clean your face
just so you can smile once more.

being frustrated
at your inability to articulate
these feelings into words,
failing to realize that there is no way
that they could understand what you mean

because what you experience,
this personal hell,
is not in their scope
of existence.

I could go on
but their voices have seeped into all my cracks
"it's all in your head"
"get over it"
"you're just being dramatic"
and I end up judging myself

feeling less like a person
and more like a thing
that was made wrong.

a misfit
a mistake
a dysfunctional
an oddity
an alien
a ****** up
overdramatic attention-seeker.

everyone has ****
why can't you keep yours in line?

everyone has pain
why can't you fix yourself?

just talk about it.

let it out.

it's easy.

what is wrong with you?
why can't you just tell me?

I hide tears away like illegal contraband
feelings that should not be indulged.

I wear smiles like special passes
so I can weave my way around society.

and all I really want
is a little patience
a little acceptance.

I'm not too much of a freak
that I cannot be loved.

I promise I'm not so bad.

just give me some time
I'll be good

please?

sometimes my apathy falls
like a silk robe to the ground,
and once again I stand before you

naked.

ashamed of myself
I try to cover the monster that you ran from.

I walk on the sands of the hourglass
for our time has ended.

there is only one set of footsteps
because I needed you to carry me
but failed to realize that you were not strong enough.

I sit alone on the beach
unable to listen to Best Coast
because that would make me cry.

I hug myself
and feel very
very small.

the gentle waves of memories
lick at my feet:
your unimpressed face when I laugh at the way you mispronounce words,
or just your face
or just the way you could make me laugh
your disgust when I joke about your **** ***,
or just your ***
or just the way we could joke about that.

it almost makes me smile
but you are the only person alive who knows my tickle spot.

the way your fingers comb from the back of my neck
to my bangs like a fisherman's net,
a feeling the sea breeze wants me to forget
as it tousles my hair violently.

the shore has too much of your face.

I dive into the water to cleanse myself
of the haunting absence of your presence

but I am too small.

my thoughts and your words surround me,
and in my attempt for closure
I am nothing more than closed.

cleansing nothing at all,
I drown in this baptism
as the distorted and unfamiliar
waters of the past soak my lungs
emptying me of breaths of hope
filling me with waters of desperation.

I am sinking into the darkness of depression
my chest compressed like the lungs
of a deep sea diver with no chance of return.

my life consists of needing mirrors
to remind myself
that I am not invisible

you have taken parts of me
and thrown them away without question
without regret.

the ease with which you let me go
echoes within me
like a "*******" spoken in church

a crack on the pane
of the room's only window.

you were not a liar
but you made yourself one

and I say that I do not hate you
because I've forgiven you

but you made that a lie also
you shaped it so that the reason for my lack of hate
is that I can no longer bring myself to care.

I will smile when I see you
because you can no longer hurt me.

your apathy shook me
like an antique chandelier
just before it crashes to the ground

and the fact that you read my poetry
and feel nothing
makes me shiver

you are cold.

you are the corpse frozen in indifference
a dead heart pumping the liquid
of fake tears.

you look and move like you used to
but I can see the stitches in your skin
the glassy, empty, gaze in your eyes

you are a monster
but I am no longer afraid.

I drop my torch and pitchfork
and watch you
destroy all the things that we built.

I raise my palms

and warm myself by the fire.

I am a leech hungry for pity.
I say I want death
but what I really crave is recognition for the life lost.

If I cut my wrists
will the red flash like warning signs
in an empty road?
will the blue of bruises
cry out to you like a lake in the desert?

How much will it take for you to see me?
I'm sorry my tears are colorless
they cannot paint the story of my pain
they cannot make the ribs of this cathedral
a stained-glass window.

I am as silent and grim as a cemetery
looking peaceful in just the right light.
Look beyond the beautiful
mausoleums,
the ivory plaques,
the angel statuettes...
dig deep for the decaying bones
the foul smell
the dead body that I am,
being eaten and gnawed by worms
and invisible, microscopic, living things.

I used to enter the coffins of bathroom stalls
to dance my weird away
to be free  from prying eyes…
now, they are chambers for my sadness
too small to hold it all

they are the mummy's sarcophagus
and I am cursed with your ghost.

I am
lonely

but the only place
large enough to hold all this loneliness
are your wide open arms.

"move on"
you said.
as if it was easy
like loving you,
as if it wasn't more
like dismantling pyramids from the top
down with a toothpick and an unsteady hand.

someday you will choose to love
but I am not the girl
to change your mind.

I am slowly accepting your death
brushing the dirt off of artifacts:
the way you held me
like an ancient civilization’s most precious deity,
late night walks
through labyrinths, with no wish for threads of return
jazz concerts, green jokes,
our staple, our oral tradition
and food always parted at the middle
a sacrifice for all the hopes we had
in this dating ritual.

you will never be the you that I once knew,
that you is dead
mummified,

existing only in my memory
like a brain kept in a jar
away from the rest of you.

This new you
(the only you that exists)
is a stranger
a different person
an un-dug desert, jungle un-ventured

and though
I grieve for he who has died
it would be stupid to dig up his grave
inside of you.

sometimes I think of you and die inside. and I end up crying in bathroom stalls. I miss you. I miss you.

sometimes I want to send you all these books I've read because they remind me of you but the truth is that no two people read the same book, no two people are in the same relationship, a conversation  is not shared, a moment, a laugh, a look. We were never a we. There was a you and an I. A you with your thoughts and an I with mine.

sometimes I think that perhaps if I write you letters. endlessly. endlessly. and put them all into a box I would eventually come to realize that there will never be a possibility of you replying to them. And you turn into nothing more than a thing in the distance that my voice will be unable to reach. and slowly. slowly. I will accept that you have gone. that how we are is no longer what we once were and that we can never be that again.

we used to refer to each other as "home". are you a wandering vagabond just like me? are you a homeless, restless, soul? are you like Julian's tourist? I am. I am. I am. You were my ultimate symbol of acceptance. and now nowhere is safe. I have taken to walking the streets every chance I get. Every time my mind is not locked on some book. on some lecture. on some dream. I am walking. walking. walking. It is the only way I can survive. to stop. to pause. would only bring me to the loss of you. it is this reality I run from.

I read book upon book to escape you. blare music to my ears til I'm dead. but all the words contain you. every line has you. the songs sing in your voice. you are everywhere. there is nowhere to run.

I'm sorry for being too much like Tereza, you deserved more than that.

and I am too scared to open my journal.

they say doing a thing 29 times makes it a habit
then I thought of all the times this day
this week
this month
that I didn't see you
and think that
that had to have been more
than 29

yet
I'm still not ******* used to it.

loneliness clings to me like wet paint
so I walk the streets at night
leaving behind neon footsteps

traces of your absence
color the asphalt
blue on black
the wind is cold
but at least it touches me.

I have grown more intimate with the rain
you are unfamiliar.

my brother's phone vibrates
and I remember when the sound
was once
yours.

I am lonely
and I am sorry for this.

I hang on you like a noose
I am the weight you drag
the useless end of a tow truck

I know I shouldn't need you as much as I do
it is unhealthy
it is unfair

**** me.

like all parasites,
I must die
so you can explode like the amazing fireworks display you were always meant to be
or burn burn burn, you infinite star..

the building is covered by rain
it pitter patters on the roof
like quiet whispers to the ear
by an unknown breath
I cringe at the neck
too close

where are you?

rain flows from the cracks
on the wall
the windows are crying.
the paint is damp and cold
and peeling.

I am on my bed
shivering
lonely
waiting
to be drenched.

the room is filled
with rain

the floor, invisible
my bed floats
as the waves lick my sheets
I am cold

the falling of rain
the sloshing of waves
sounds encircling me like arms
touching my cheek
my hair
my lips

arms that
hold me by the neck
crashing raindrops like the banging in my chest
I cannot breathe.

I read back old conversations
and they are not our voices
they are muffled sounds
underwater

I cried at the breakfast table this morning
my father carefully explained,
"wives must be submissive to their husbands"
"housecleaning is the domain of the woman"
"God created woman because man asked for a partner"

This past semester I wrote two papers

One, a fire and brimstone sermon
          I quoted Anais Nin
          sending the creators of sexist commercials to eternal suffering
          "**** them!" I said. "May they burn in hell."
          For the women they portrayed were doormats
          Misconceptions
          Monsters

The other, the role of women in the 1920s,
           No longer confined to the kitchen
           they dropped ballots with their new freedom
           they wore short dresses and short tresses
           fingers wrapped around cigs
           they quoted Wilde instead of Alcott
           they danced until their feet hurt
       
I read of Anais Nin's "new woman,"
her partnership, not submission to man,

I craved a room of my own, neigh demanded it
For sheep stayed in the kitchen,
The Woolf had a study.

I read poetry
Sexton,
Plath,
I wept for their starved, depressed selves
caged, suffocating inside the clasped hands of a man.
Loved like rib-cage jails.

Adrienne Rich made me angry,
her daughter-in-law
forever trying to fit into a box
she was always too big for, spilling
at the edges, her shaved
legs like "white mammoth tusks"

I was finally
happy with my womanhood.

******, ******, *****, *******
they are mine.
******* free to move unrestrained,
jiggling under my shirt.
Wetness between my thighs.
Menstrual blood,
they are mine.

mine.

I am not ashamed of what I am
because there is no shame.

I am woman,
I am girl,
I am lady.
I am a creature
with a voice
a mind.

a creature who endured much abuse,
continue to endure.

I am woman

and I don't have to be wife or mother
unless I want to be.
I was not created for man;
I was created for the same reason he was,
to serve the same great purpose on this tiny blue dot.

I am not rib.

I am ******, ******, *****, *******
******* free, unrestrained,
Wetness between my thighs.
Menstrual blood,

I am a per.
I am a wo.
I am a hu.

Man and son need to back down,
collaborate not dominate,
speak not command,

for when less are forced into silence,
the maddening scream
hidden inside skin and bones and muscle-meat
becomes song.

this world of car horns and tire screeches
crying and wailing from raw throats
angry protests of indignation

could use a little music.

have a God,
be a deist instead
then marry me,
the mediocre Catholic.

let's have children,
let's not have children
because "Parents, they ******* up."
but you'd make a great dad
I think
yes? no?
maybe?
and I'd make a great mom...
...sort of.

We'd love them (the children or child..whichever)
and we'd be weird
so they'd (or he or she..again, whichever) be weird
and their friends would say,
"Who the **** are The Beatles?"

Eh...let's not get married
yet.
let's hold hands first
or be together a year
or get through one meal without having to giggle and look away
because I caught you staring at me
or was it me who was...never mind.

Now I'm studying my hands,
the ones you have not held,
the ones with the ugly, fat, stubby, unlady-like fingers
the same fingers you said you loved.

you're such an idiot sometimes.

Remember that time you said I was beautiful?
which time?
oh right, you've said it more than once;

you idiot.

Do you notice how when you're not looking at me
I stare at your face?
your eyes?
your lips?
your perfect lashes?
No?

good.

I should stop now.
see you soon,
you

idiot.

I feel the feeling of wanting to die,like standing on the edge of a high place;
glass elevator ascending
closer to heaven.  

as I read my book and look up
your eyes say,
"you are beautiful"
as shyly, they look away


I am ugly.

I am a monster with stubby fingers
a dead animal on my head
a screaming in my brain
marks on my face like dots splattered from broken ink


you said they looked like stars
and then you made me cry

I thought I'd never do that again.

I crack the glass under my feet
break through and fall,

hot wax dripping on my back
my shoulders
meat and bones, crashing
falling
drawing
closer to heaven.

As I was making my way to the kitchen
I dropped the cup I was holding
and it bounced on the floor, bangin in its wake
but still the sound did not fill the emptiness of this large room
on this lonely night

I miss you

I miss everything
anything
nothing

No face comes to mind
no moment, no place, no voice
only a feeling
a feeling that I was once whole.

I am broken now
like the shadows the trees' leaves cast
on my solitary walks

I am quiet now
or have I always been?

when you say you like someone else
I retaliate with silence and made up faces
of calm and i-could-care-less

"haha that's so funny"
smile
you're not thinking about this
you are not thinking about her
you are looking at his eyes
(stupid eyes that look at another's)
smile
don't grit your teeth
smile
oh he's holding your hand
did he hold her's like this too?

smile

get rid of that sarcastic face
he is looking at you
and he is holding your hand

smile.

I'm afraid
I'm beginning to frame you in forever.
But we are young
And that is stupid.
But what if I want to be stupid?
Hey as long as it's with you.
I'm listening to that song you gave me,
"born to multiply
born to gaze into night skies
all you want's one more Saturday"
All these ideas of youth,
fun, carefree,
reckless.
"I feel like I could just fly
but nothing happens every time
I try"
We are young and
I can't stop thinking about you.
And pictures of you make me smile
And I replay your laugh again and again,
unending like that gif of you
in my phone
on my palm, you
in a cosmic, comical,
dance loop.
Whoever thought that
that boy
that boy who sat at the back of the class
the boy I'd never talked to
and only shyly added up on facebook
would end up being you?
Maybe
maybe this won't last forever
or even that long
(at least not by adult standards;
who rate everything by time
and not the intensity and quality
of our shared moments)
Maybe this won't last forever
But at least now it feels like it could.
The song has ended
...but I shall play it again
because there is such a thing as a replay button
And you are still here
you can still dance on my palm
you can still smile at me across a concert crowd
and we can still walk the pavements at night.
We may be young
But I've already imagined telling you
"Hey,
no matter what happens between us
let's agree that what we have right now,
it's real"

You've eaten two chicken burgers in front of me

and the second time
I realized
you were beautiful.

That sounds stupid, but hear me out;
your eyes
they're perfect
your lashes are so delicate
like gossamer black frames of thin, long, lady's gloved fingers.
I sound crazy, I know
But I'm writing a poem about it
and Art is a license for madness;
So leave me be.
I'm stalking pictures of you on the webs
of the internet
But these golems
these flat, lifeless, smiles
leave me unsatisfied
None of them capture that moment
when I was
suspended
in a state of silent staring
like cobwebs in empty, abandoned room corners
hanging
quiet
undisturbed

your voice muted by the screaming
in your eyes

as you
romantically
perfectly
delicately
bit into that burger.

I wonder how I looked then.

Let me be the Bonnie to your Hyde
I can be the Z to your Scotty
Let's, let's ruin each other baby
Arms and fingers locked
Drugging the other down
We're two gnarled bodies, writhing on the ground

No morphine needed
We're both about the pain
Inhaling you fast
You're my line of pixie dust
I fly to fall down
Faith? Hope? I just need to suffer now.

You're the apple tree splinter
Poking my eye so I can't see.
The mirror on your door is me
And the fairest is anyone but you.
I'm your painting mr. Gray
Hide me in the attic; can't throw me away

Let's, let's ruin each other baby
Oh wait we already did or do.
These brass scales are getting heavy,
It's me for you

And do you hear that sound?
It's our siren lullaby.
We crash into each others'arms
Tied to each others' masts;
Drugging each other down
There's the frog and the water-sound.

We're one, we're done, well that was fun.

palms are masks
that cover nothing
fingers, frustrated fishermen
combing dark waters, searching
for the uninhabited isle.

the tree stump pitifully trying
to grow,
melody of the typewriter,
the letter opener's song,
withered daisy in a plastic display,
hidden bookworm art
carved into dusty paperbacks,
overgrown, abandoned houses:
sleeping animal,
dormant jungle.

wet asphalt puddles of fallen sky

dead butterfly

blind blue eyes;

tragic, difficult, poetic
         you are

poetically
(unplayed piano furniture)







          useless.

Whoever said,
"Parting was such sweet sorrow"
obviously never meant/met
you

because

when you go
you take all the light with you

NO

not the light
for all light does is help one to see

what you have taken
is but every single shred of happiness
and
hope of ever getting these shreds back again.

Maybe it was Shakespeare?

How lucky he was then to have lived
and died
meeting only people he could bear
to part with

and how unfortunate
am
I.

Alone again in this four-room house;
the wind stagnant, like water.
empty beds
crumpled
from bodies that have long ago left.

On the table there is but one placemat
and eight chairs.

I have turned off all the lights
to look at myself
reflected
on the moon on my table.

I wish you were here

but you never are, never were.
you are a ghost
hiding behind words from far away.

It's been days of us reading
each other.
letters, commas, question
marks dancing
into a person.

I crane my neck to hear your voice
but there are only faint echoes,
like murmurs
from distant mountains.

There is a house on Trepidation Street
and it is where I have often lived.
You are beyond

a poem
you are beyond me
you are my fear in human form
because you are so many things I am not,

talented
intelligent
interesting.

you are what I've been looking for
and more,
it is this more that makes me fear
the distance
between us is further than my imperfection can take.

My own fear rests
in my occupation of this space
you've given me: between loving you
and wondering
if
you love me too.

or perhaps
in the realization
that no good poem will come to me untilyouleaveme
but I don't think any poem could be worth losing



you.

I’m talking to you
in my head

been cultivating this shyness
since I was three years old

talking to inanimate objects

painted smiles, rubber-skinned
metal frames
turning wheels

the family minivan kept me company
as mountains rose and fell
like held breaths
let go.
playing games with pregnant raindrops
rolling down the glass
obsessed with the shark’s fin triangle
the wipers could not
reach.

I’m obsessing over seeing you.

always trying to be invisible
your eyes beginning to skim past I,

they didn’t used too.

“The voices that once spoke love
but did not mean love.”
the withered rose living
in the trash,
abandoned friends in the attic
forgotten songs
unfinished books

I am the forgotten
I am the abandoned
I am the left behind

cobweb-and-cotton-dust-collector
the silence connoisseur
I wear loneliness like an unwashed favorite shirt

If I die
Will you read this?
Does anyone else think such things
or is Tonio Kroger my only brother?

I am Kafka’s cockroach,
everyone is waiting for me to die
or to change into what you want me to be.

my name will not be in the history books
by the time my children’s children will have children
I am no one.

Everything fades in this world
like whiteboard-marker on acetate lives.

Desolate corners and garbage
tell stories
art is vandalism, vandalism is art.
and people wear diamonds but they are worth nothing.
and babies inherit their father’s eyes.

I am not yours.

You are not mine.
Isn’t ownership objectification?
If a man owns a clock
does the clock own the man?

Let’s be
money and greed
or
greed and suffering.
one cannot survive
without…

Let’s be
the mismatched pyramids
of wealth and population
form a parallelogram
like bricks on an unstable wall
never falling down.

you are

gone
pounded footsteps unto the floor
keys clanging
on the bowl beside the door
crashing like mother's china.

still feel
your hand on the shelf,
my shoulder.
the shaking cupboard,
my heart

these the ghosts
the shadows
the flicker
of the wet-paint-traveler?

covered in reds and pinks and sunsets
dragged his colors,
streaked my insides,
marked my rib cage

or

is it the make up
once swallowed
attempting inner beauty?

wanted to change

but you told me to stay
the drab old wallpaper.

You left
and it looks like
ended up changing after all.

I am the broken binding
of a tattered book

many times opened, never
finished

edges brown
from fingers, passing

no notes on my borders
few sentences underlined

creases, plenty
mementos of 'come-back-to-read-you-later'
thin brown lines
like palms
all ready to break

Enter the space
of individuals-not-allowed.

bodies merge
knee to knee
shoulder to shoulder
face to face
thousand hands passing the silver faces
feeding the dark
fingernails of grime and engine heat.

Spewing out smoke

a moving temple,
a makeshift market,
a piece of art,

my nation's identity.

heavy faces
like rainwater
on tarpaulin ceilings

sinking into the meaningless
prose of daily life

cliched, cafe, journal writer
asking for someone
         to answer

the why.

and everyone is wearing earphones
         everyone

's an empty magazine
cover
stories
photos
colors, forms
edited,
          taken
from somewhere else

          we are no longer

ourselves.

thin, fat,
black bars
trapped
in a white box
          we willingly enter

reluctantly leave
           to feel
the joys of coming in
           
again.

There is an emptiness
inside me
consuming my peace.

we are.

abandoned shoes
in the middle of the sidewalk.

rusted metal
car casings,
ribs
where the washed clothes
dry.

painted graffiti
in a hidden place,

whispered secrets,
bottled letters
to the ocean's waves

we are the ocean

the ocean inside the seashell  
discarded pencil shavings at the nearby starbucks.

Unsteady hands
coarse, rusty locks
we are.

the staring blank spaces,
the screaming questions,
the tired voices,

they who do not speak.

we are

Distant bells start the day
the sun casts strips on blue-gray walls
cobwebs hanging lazily above
not strong enough to pull bodies
from beds
of hard wood and tiresome sleep

on the edge of this pencil, a poem
lazier
watching specs of dust
gracefully failing to fly

Early rising
needing more sand than most

water
splashing on the banks of this urban river

another tropical rain
storm

puddles of rainbows
by the auto shop

foil fossils
plastic skeletons
trash cadavers
block the concrete mouths

gaping, open, waiting.


children's hands
bowls of chocolate liquid
thrown, given, shared

gifts of laughter and disease.

mosaic of colored umbrellas
limping
open
close.

rubber slippers
flopping
running
slide.

there is no shelter
there is only rain.

The road he travels is filled
with bleeding markers
wrought with the pain of a past
life

They described him to be substantial
and ****
like unfinished books
on coffee tables and subways
pages blowing

His future promised to justify
his parents'
fears

A wanderer
silently obsessed
with the road less traveled
with reading the American continent
like Sal Paradise

But he lived with windows half unhinged
never
really
getting there...

I find myself soul searching inside Cafes
As if to expect sitting there
The six year old who asked how the cricket sings
The two year old who could not be understood
And the first grader who'd just learned to fly

But every sip of coffee does not give something back
The records playing tug no inner chords
And the pages are as blank filled
As when the notebook was first opened

Strangers' eyes do not hold couplets
And their smiles are painted curves
Of chipping, fading memories

I am intrigued...
who are you?
I say to the boy
with the eyes screaming
"save me"

his smile smelling of dead things
and boiling tar

what are you?
and he laughs
a sound like the quiet echo of a raindrop in nowhere.

I've been curing my loneliness
with solitude

talking to myself
instead of somebody else.

I've been spending days
staring at the ceiling
dreaming myself to outer space
or New York

instead of leaving my room.

I've been writing letters
whose length would make Anna Karenina blush
all tucked into the curves of my cerebral cortex

instead of sending

"hey, hw r u?"
text messages

I've been curing my loneliness
with solitude

if you call crying alone
with my own hand patting my back

curing

I wish I was happier
Then maybe I'd be normal
Or is it
If I were more normal,
I'd be happier
?

Mind if I play pretend?*

What if it was you and me
on a breezy hill

         overlooking nothing but grass

                                                       grass

grass waving to the wind
like waves that never crash

would you sit beside me
and stare at it
be silent
comfortable enough
in each others' thoughts?

I would watch you
from the corner of my eye
and you would be
smiling

(I always have you smiling in my mind)

your perfect bangs ruined
tousled
yet beautiful.

I'd watch your magic eyes
flashing
shining
bright.

boy with the old poet's soul.

looking at the same field
yet you'd see it better
than I

you will capture the parts that contain the unexplainable
and hold it
in your heavenly rucksack

while all I have are
eyes bending the light,
making sense of the colors.

your mouth will not open
you do not tell me what you see

but you free what you've trapped
in your poetry

and there do you give

you to me.

As I stare at the face in the mirror I think
It would look good through the window
of a casket

where time and decay can touch it
away from peering eyes

when all the thoughts are

              what she could have been

                                            what she was

and not

                                                               what she failed to be


So many have sealed their fates as legends
by dying
young

Like fireworks
that fly high and burst
as the crowd ooohs and ahhhs


I don't want to be the stars
hung forever
burning

burning
until everyone forgets their beauty

for in a crowd of white dwarfs
so few become supernovas
and there is always the risk
of becoming
a self-destructive
drag others down with you

black hole.

What's the most difficult word in the
                                                                        tio                                          
                                                       dic      
                                                                                      na
                                                                                                 r
                                                                                                      y?
well
for a shy person,

it's hello.

Not exactly the best day ever
not the worst either.

I wish I could say that something amazing
or significant happened
but nothing did.

I'm not the same person I was yesterday
but I have no idea what's changed, exactly.

I feel kinda sad
but not the bad kind of sad that has me crying,
it's that kind of sad from knowing
I haven't done enough.

I didn't live up to this day's potential.
I feel like I failed to do something.

I really should start living in the world more

*my brain's getting too stuffy

Imagine for a moment that the weather is a ******

She is bored as she peels off the chipping paint on my window
and with eyebrow raised flicks the pieces at my bed
(the same bed I am lying on)

I hear the woosh and flutter of her dress
as she parades and struts around.
She is purposely blowing cigarette smoke to my face
like a high and mighty *****
with painted lips and black stockings.

I pay her no heed

She screams and ruffles the trees for attention
flinging branches and leaves in a fit
she speaks and her spit hits my eyes in little droplets.

Her heavy breathing
and banging of doors and windows
is becoming a little too dramatic

I close the window again,
I've closed it a million times
and with her dainty fingers she pries it open to peek

she sulks in a corner
eyeing me crossly
annoyed at my reading
my writing
my contemplation

and true to her nature

          she does it all again...

I remember the day
you said
'I like you'
I acted cavalier
ran the hell away

yet the truth is
I thought I kinda liked you too

I don't know why
I stopped myself

I've turned the pond of silence
between us an ocean

but sometimes,
(just sometimes)
I still feel your glance
and I swear I still hear the
whispers in your eyes.

I've run,
yet here you still are,
and still here I go
running
to there...somewhere

when the truth is
that every time you come,
to that moment before I turn my back
walk away,
I had already spent

hours

                thinking

                            waiting

­        for you.

The truth is
I always
always
know when you're there,
I've memorized the way you walk
to the messy of your hair.

There's nothing more to say because

I've never said anything
nor have I ventured near enough to hear you
speak.

I am paralyzed
by this anxiety
this deep fear, they've weakly deemed

shyness.

I hate when I wear my pretend indifference,

because the truth is
I like you,

I've always.

If I could catch anything
with these small stubby hands
I'd catch the train
that leads to  you.

I never realized
you were the* only reason
for facebook

and as I watched you walk
away from me,
I knew I never tried hard enough

I wish these sheets were a cave
I could hide in forever
bury my face in
comfortable old threads
and familiar smells

where time moves slowly

breaths
deep and full
lungs filled to capacity
diaphragm like the arch of a gymnast's back

where the darkness swallows
rocking back and forth
cradles you upon its tongue.

but it is what it is

..a scrunched up fist of frustration
tired sponge to daily tears

a ***** throw away rag
to an unfolded morning rush

it's
     just
           a piece  

           of cloth.