My people want freedom
My people want peace
Our leaders are corrupt they do not lead
All man are born free
For us its a myth
We are all leashed
Unshackle us
Set us free
All men are born free and equal, and have certain natural, essential, and unalienable rights; among which may be reckoned the right of enjoying and defending their lives and liberties; that of acquiring, possessing, and protecting property; in fine, that of seeking and obtaining their safety and happiness (UNIVERSAL HUMAN RIGHTS OF MEN  DECLARATION)
I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)
Jing Xi Lau Nov 8
What is art?
Is it the expression of creative skill?
The application of imagination?

Is art the creation of beauty?
The birth of emotional power?
Or is art solely imitation?
A copy of something that is real?

Is art a fool’s attempt at immortality?
Angelic bodies immortalized within a frame,
Faces of eternal youth,
Fruit that is forever ripe,
Flowers in perpetual bloom?

Is art a source of calm in a chaotic world?
Jing Xi Lau Nov 8
The world claims that it has too many writers,
But not enough scientists.
Everyone can be a writer,
But not everyone a scientist.
So cynical.

Now everyone is a scientist,
No one writes anymore,
No one cares to,
No one but I.
You’d think the world needs more writers,
Now more than ever.
So naïve.

The truth is,
The world only has room for science and progress,
Machine guns and machine men,
With machine hearts.
There is no space,
For poetry and love.
This is no place,
For us.
Jing Xi Lau Nov 8
The air smells of ground coffee beans and freshly brewed tea.
A girl sits by a large window that, sadly,
Doesn’t provide much of a scenery.
She sees her reflected self,
Her glassy eyes staring back at themselves.
She sees the reflection of the strangers around her,
Their hurried moments of affection,
Their lipstick-stained coffee cups,
Their involuntary displays of vexation.
They see their mirrored selves,
Their idle chatter,
Their fake smiles,
Their forced laughter.
It’s like watching a reality show,
Watching the lives of other people,
On a single glass screen.  
Little do they realize,
That they’ve been watching themselves,
Watching their own lives become other people’s lives.
On the other side of the window,
Passersby peer through the tinted glass,
Into the lives of these strangers.
A woman with her lover but not her husband,
A group of teenage boys trying to woo a pretty barista,
Two college girls trading ***** secrets,
A girl sitting all alone by the window,
Staring into space.
It’s like watching a reality show,
Watching people go on about their lives,
Seeing life without actually being a part of it.
Jing Xi Lau Nov 8
Daylight seeps through the black and white curtains,
Like fingers tearing through fabric,
Touching his skin.  
Sound asleep.
His back is turned to face me,
And in the morning light,
I see the stretchmarks I love,
Stretching beyond horizons,
Beyond untouched barriers.
Striae like streams flowing into rivers,
Rivers draining into oceans,
Beckoning explorers to brave the choppy currents.
I trace them with my fingertips,
Sending shivers down his spine,
Electrical jolts down mine.
I close my eyes,
Hold him tight.
Before I know it,
Day has turned into night.
Just like that,
Sunbeam into moonlight.
There is a cacophony,
Of gentle snores,
Groggy moans,
Words mumbled through half-awaken lips,
Words I can’t really make out.
I roll to the edge of the bed,
Prop myself up.
He turns to face me,
Eyes still shut,
And mumbles,
Jing Xi Lau Nov 8
The night was young,
And so were we.
Lying across each other,
On polyester sheets.

We made plans,
Talked about our dreams.
You would whip up a pun,
Expect me to laugh.
I would give you a look,
Tell you not to be daft.

Some nights,
We waged wars,
Raged like storms.
I would yell,
And stomp out the door.
But you would grab me by my knees,
Turn me upside down,
I would burst into laughter.
In that moment,
My world,
Ceilings became floors,
Curtains stood upright against windowpanes.
The asphalt road outside became a gray skyline,
Street lamps turned into stars.
I thought to myself,
Will we remember this moment,
Forty years from now,
When we are old and gray?

The night is young,
But we no longer are.
Lying across each other,
But far apart.

We’ve stopped making plans,
Because plans are for dreamers.
We talk about our past,
The people we used to be.
You place your hand on my cheek,
And I start to cry.
You say,
I remember.
I remember everything.
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