at the end of the day, i stared at the teabag
that i scooped out from the ***.
wet and sloshy, its scent faded and sweetened;
it wasn't itself anymore.

without its lingering bitterness
without its verdant hues,
or its unique aromas that they fancied,
it could never be who it was.  

the used teabag, now that its purpose was served,
is no longer wanted.
was it fulfilled by the amount of tea it gives,
or was it emptied?

what shall i write today
on this scrawny paper?

when a lion decides
to grow wings
and the old man wants
to become a toddler again.

when fire is ice
and ice is something else

when a melting *** can't hold heat
and loses its shape.

when a heart is prancing
and legs grabbing

when a man is not a man
but a rocking chair
swaying back and forth
and back
and forth
and back
and forth

on the brink of night

waiting, eyes open.

nothing in me is still

but nothing outside moves

hours of staring at lightless window

wasting time thinking about

the wrong person.



A glimpse of the moon

parted by leaves

outside my window

reminds me of how alone I am.

Always the one standing at the passageway

under the busy road

wasting time thinking about

the wrong

person,

I.

he is like an unfinished painting
a song with secretive lyrics
he spills a line then retracts a paragraph
with his eyes; that wide ocean
of unending metaphors
he watches and keeps to himself
a bag full of captured moments

and i am a bird, perched on an ordinary tree
i craned my neck, yet he couldn't see
my subtle melody, another mystery,
trapped underneath the leaves
i beg for mercy from a worm
that was supposed to be my meal

there are no trees across the ocean.

even in the negatives
i will never be cleared
or towed away in his collection of polaroids
yet in between my words, there he is
coloring the spaces my ink left
filling and filling and spilling
on my bed sheet, in my closet
among the neurons in my head

there will never be trees across the ocean.

Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me . . .
I tapped my own head;
it was glass, an inverted bowl.
It's small thing
to rage inside your own bowl.
At first it was private.
Then it was more than myself.

I can hear it slicing through my brain,
like a sharp, stray tune of imperfect melody.
It tampers with desolate whimpers
A cry for attention
My contoured skin is peeled away
by those words

"Never will I be,
Pretty."

If I could just cut it off
like excess skin
like layers of flabby fats

If there's a liposuction
for dark thoughts
If I can tuck it
away from my tummy

I'd do it in a heartbeat.

there's a gap
inside of me
that couldn't be filled

I went
walking down every streets
watching people's footsteps
trying to find
which rhythm
that I could dance to
without tripping down

I watch
the purple sky before sunrise
and the orange glimmer before nightfall
trying to understand
which moment
that I could amend myself
at least for a smile

but no matter how far
this feet has brought me
no matter how much
time has been wasted

this tiring journey
has never succeed
in finding
the right piece
to fill the gap.