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?

So many thoughts I can’t fathom,
So many feelings I can’t put into words,
Bottled emotions I can’t pour,
Onto a page of poetry.

Yet here we are spewing out syllables,
Vomiting words we don’t mean,
Mumbling phrases we don’t understand,
Just to fill the void that has grown between us,
The space between a pair of parentheses.

Afraid of running out of things to say,
We make up truths,
Weave pretty lies,
And hold them within,
Our brackets of babel.

Primary-colored neon signs,
In the windows,
Of every smoke-permeated bar.
Open is in red,
Cocktail glass in blue,
Lemon twist,
Gin,
Yellow.

Around the corner,
A French antique store,
With grand chandeliers,
Dangling from,
Every inch of its ceiling,
Emitting a coalesced glow,
Warm,
Mellow.

Every nightclub down the street,
A party of its own.
Strobe lights,
Blinding.
Music,
Deafening.
A drunk teen,
Retching.
Poor,
Fellow.

Fluorescent billboards,
Brood over worn-out men.
City lights,
No matter how bright,
Can never drown out,
Their dark suits,
Dark ties.
Their longing,
To belong.
Their sighs,
A,
Bellow.

Let’s leave this place behind,
The little wealth we own.
There’s much to find,
The world has grown.  

We can live in the sky,
Build our home on each cloud.
We can make thunder our lullaby,
Oh the freedom to sing out loud.

Above our cotton castle,
I shall draw you a constellation.
You’re more than a broken vessel,
Darling you’re my salvation.

You took my shattered pieces,
Turned them into stars.
Like rain you showered me with kisses,
Now faded are my scars.

So let’s leave this place behind,
Build castles out of cotton.
They say I’ve lost my mind,
But they’ll soon be forgotten.

We're all dying to feel alive,
Are we the living dead?
We hate to love
But we fall in love anyway.
We wander just to get lost,
But we want to be found.
We spend our nights together,
But we feel more alone than ever.
We cover our ears,
Shout across horizons.
What's this sound?
Deafening silence.
Piercing through the noise of the world.

Different eyes see different things,
You see a rose,
I see her thorns,
You see a garden,
I see her secrets.

I am the poem you wrote on the back of your hand,
The ink that was washed away,
Flown into the drain.
I am the idea you hurriedly scribbled on a napkin in a coffee shop,
But forgot to take with you.
I am the tune you could never hum right,
The page that fell off the hinge of an old book,
Collecting dust.

Tiny raindrops began falling from thin air,
Slowly seeping into my hair.
I walked in the rain,
Starting to think of things that fall like rain.
Apples falling from apple trees.
Water cascading down in the shower.
Pens tumbling down from frantic or unpractised fingers.
Pages falling out from the hinge of an old book.
Pennies and dimes gushing out from toppled mason jars.
Coffee being poured into coffee mugs.
People jumping off buildings.
People hopping off planes.
People leaping off cliffs.
People falling in love.
I walked in the rain,
Starting to realize that people fall as easily as rain.

She dreamt of him last night,
His arm around her waist,
Her skirt rippling in starlight,
As they danced with a feverish haste.

She whispered "I miss you,"
And placed her hand on his cheek,
His skin was a midnight blue,
A shade from the sun which she seeks.

His warmth kept her alive,
As she blissfully gasped for air,
He took her for a long drive,
Ran his fingers through her hair.

She felt more awake than ever,
As she drifted further into her dream,
Insomnia a wasted endeavor,
Swallowed by a river of moonbeam.

"Please stay here forever," he implored,
But hours could not stretch into days,
So she left through the backdoor,
Eyes wide open and head in a haze.

The walls of my throat are scratched,
By all the fishbones I've swallowed,
Forced down by gulps of rice and vinegar.

But sometimes,
The bones refuse to move.
Sometimes,
They remain stuck.

For a moment,
A fleeting moment,
I thought I was yours,
And you were mine.
I thought my fingers and yours,
Entwined.
For a moment,
A fleeting moment,
I thought you wanted more than sighs,
Quivering thighs.
I thought you wanted love,
And I thought it was love.
But,
That moment lasted for as long as you did.
Fleeting.
When that moment dissolved into nothingness,
Between the sheets,
So did I.

Why hold on to something,
That will eventually slip through,
The spaces between our fingers?
Like the sands of time.
Pointless.
Futile.

They print their lives on a price tag,
Those big fat numbers,
All they do is brag.
My daughter’s a neurosurgeon,
Graduated from Johns Hopkins,
Saving lives by the hundreds.
My son a number-crunching accountant,
A career that keeps his wallet thick,
And his pockets filled.

They wonder what I do,
I tell them I work with words.
They gasp,
Eyes widen.

I tell them that,
I can count the spaces between adjacent letters in a word,
String words together to build a sentence,
Layer each sentence above another like bricks,
Place a single powerful mark of punctuation in between,
The glue that holds the bricks intact and forms a wall.
A wall of stanzas,
Connected by commas and semicolons.
A wall of paragraphs,
Big enough to block numbers out.

Because words fill souls while numbers fill pockets.
Words are immeasurable.

Infinite.

Rain sprinkling on our glasses.
Wind rattling our coats.
We were walking down an unfamiliar street,
Gravel crunching beneath our feet.
You smiled but then you stopped,
A curve that wasn't fully stretched.
You pulled out your hand from your coat pocket,
Began counting on your fingers.
Counting the days we have left.

One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Stop.

Maybe if you stopped counting,
Numbers would cease to exist.
If numbers ceased to exist,
Whatever we have left,
Could only be measured by moments,
Not days,
Hours,
Or minutes.
But moments.

In each moment,
A baby is born into this mess of a world,
But is readily embraced by it.
In each moment,
A schoolgirl is crying alone in a bathroom stall,
Waiting to be saved from isolation.
In each moment,
A couple shares their first kiss.
In each moment,
Beer bottles are smashed,
Wives are beaten,
Children threatened.
In each moment,
A dreamer stops dreaming,
A poet stops writing.
In each moment,
Hellos are idly uttered,
Goodbyes are not said.

How does one count every moment,
On fingers that are numbered?

Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Stop.

You didn't understand.
How could you?
So in that moment,
I grabbed your hand,
Held it in mine.
Our fingers intertwined.

Five.
Ten.

Our forever is built on,
A temporary palace,
With paper-thin walls,
Our bed a foam mattress.

Our forever is sprawled across,
The stained carpeted floor,
Beneath our ***** laundry,
Messes we choose to ignore.

Our forever is cracked into,
Every omelet and French toast,
Served with a glass of cold juice,
And kisses on the nose.

Our forever is written on,
Every inch of your midnight skin,
Each stubble and razor bump like Braille,
A love language I've never seen.

Our forever is tested,
By time zones and distance,
Will our palace walls crumble,
Or stand in defiance?

Our forever is put on trial,
By people who shouldn't bother,
A xenophobic aunt,
And an uncle who's a pastor.

Our forever is cursed,
By a father's daily prayer,
Wrapped in his own infidelity,
The quiet naysayer.

Our forever is assembled,
From sticks and stones hurled at us,
Will it endure hurricanes and haters,
Or is it just a temporary palace?

I can’t braid hair,
I trip over my own feet when I walk in heels,
I don’t paint my nails,
I have no idea how to do makeup.
But yes,
I am a woman.

Because being a woman is not wearing a tight skirt,
Hem above knees.
Flash a little skin,
Don’t be a *****.
Cover those up,
You ****.
Being a woman is not keeping your mouth shut,
Obedient at his feet,
Looking pretty.
Put pretty on your resume,
Put a smile on that face.

No,
Being a woman is building a home out of closed doors,
Bridging wage gaps with sticks and stones,
Thrown your way,
Finding healing where there was none,
Enduring the pain of a new life emerging from your womb,
Giving and forgiving,
Giving till the jar is empty.

My sisters,
You have so much more to offer,
To share with the world.
So don’t settle for pretty,

Never settle.

I saw you,
In the bustling pantry,
Among the office lunch crowd,
Your eyes met mine,
For the first time.
Send help.

I soon forgot,
All about you,
Didn't know your name,
Didn't think twice of you,
Till I saw you again.
Send help.

Your voice was warm,
And so was your gaze,
My smile was wide like a child's,
Till I caught a glimpse,
Of a ring around your finger.

Send help.

Daylight seeps through the black and white curtains,
Like fingers tearing through fabric,
Touching his skin.  
Soft,
Dark,
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,
Stay.

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.

The night was young,
And so were we.
Lying across each other,
On slightly stained sheets.

We made plans,
Talked about our dreams.
We waged wars,
Fought about things that didn't even matter,
I  broke the fridge and ran out the door.
But you grabbed me by my knees,
Turned me upside down,
And I burst into laughter,
Thinking 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 try to pick me up,
But your knees have become weak,
So you place your hand on my cheek,
And I start to cry.
You say,
Darling,
I remember.
I remember everything.

Silence cuts like a slow knife,
Its blade,
Ice cold,
Ruptures my bowel,
Eats up my yearning,
Swallows my defiant screams.

I'd rather rage,
I'd rather have a storm,
Than cruel silence.
I'd choose a song of thunder,
Over a minute of soundlessness.

I'd rather slam doors,
Smash our dinner plates,
Hurl books from their shelves,
I'd rather break things,
Than have the silence break me.

Can I have a moment of silence?
No.

Why can't we just talk it out?
No.

You need to calm down.
No!

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.

I’ve never been the right kind of girl,
Too mean because I don’t smile often,
Too fake when I laugh,
Too skinny because I don’t have *****,
Too fat when I can no longer squeeze into my old jeans,
Too quiet because I don’t voice my opinions,
Too loud when I speak my mind,
Too obliging because I follow orders,
Too stubborn when I make a stand.
You see,
We will never be the right kind of girls,
Nor do we have to be.
We are too much of everything,
That we can’t be labeled,
Put into societally standardized boxes.
Like the sun,
We can’t be contained.
Like a flower,
We can bend with the wind and still not snap.
Like a blade of grass,
We can be trampled on,
And still survive.

At dusk,
All our labors are reduced to nothingness,
Ground to dust,
All in vain.
But by dawn,
We shall pick ourselves up,
Our heavy bones and weary souls,
Just to try again.

I'm too young to be tired,
Tired of life;
How can I be,
When I've barely lived?

The old terrace house,
My childhood home.
Sometimes I still dream of its beige concrete walls,
The cornflower tiles that lined the kitchen floor,
The tall bronze gate,
With its red wrought iron flowers.
Two cars parked by the front door,
One was mom's,
The other was yours.

In that house,
You always sat in the living room,
With the TV playing in the background,
The morning newspaper in hand.
You would buy us our favorite snacks,
While mom nagged about our calorie intake.
You loved taking us to the movies,
While mom always stayed home.

The city center condo,
The one I never dream of.
Its sleek gray walls,
Cold blank windows,
Offering a view of other monotonous condos,
Lights blinking with a sense of urgency,
Like a fatalistic warning.

In this house,
Well...
You were never really here.
Even when you were,
You sat in the living room,
With the TV playing in the background,
Your eyes glued to your pocket-sized screen.

Months later,
I left for a faraway land,
And you left for the warmth of someone else's bed.

When I came home,
You were no longer here.
But your clothes still hung in the closet,
Your deodorant sat by the dresser,
Your belongings untouched,
Collecting dust,
Waiting to be reclaimed.

But you never returned for them,
Instead,
You had them replaced.

New shirts,
Made from Chinese silk and linen,
New musk cologne,
Reeking of toxic masculinity,
And not to mention,
A new wife who cooks and cleans,
And excels in the bedroom.  
A new home,
With clean white walls,
And quiet empty rooms.

So I bought you a housewarming gift,
Something I know you would like,
A coir doormat that says,
"Welcome Home."

When he leaves,
What he leaves behind,
She knows.

When love is gone,
Where does it go?
She wonders.