things fall together
and things fall apart

like words fall on paper
and transform into art

and sometimes the best explanation
is in the hands of God

and the reasons we look for
are far and abroad

and the heartache we feel
cannot be captured in poems

and the sickness and anger
is best left unspoken

i'm hanging on for coffee kisses
and sun-soaked mornings,
with frothy wonder at my fingertips.
hot steam rises,
and vivid colors slowly dissipate;
but my dear,
you sweeten those kisses with your smile.
presently, you're far,
and the mornings are hot and stagnant.
a cup of joe only gets me so far...
but i'm holding on for those coffee kisses that keep me going.
those coffee kisses and sun-soaked morning by your side.

we kissed on december 10th, 2018 around 11 am after a fire alarm and breakfast.

Can life be but spring dresses and pomegranates on my lips?
A slight scent of roses and honey?
A simple breeze?
Can skin be soft and flawless, and soaking in the glow of the April sun?
Can I wander alone? or perhaps... with you?
Then a constant showering, where the sky turns dark and the flowers grow.
Let's stay inside, veil the windows, watch the lightning.
The sheets are warm, and so am I - safe in your arms.
It's merely a concept of being content, a concept to consider.
And with the sun, the spring dress goes on.
A blanket in a meadow.
And you.

I'm broken down by their weakness,
and distasteful indecency.
Over and over, I'll continue to play the victim.
In place of warm life,
stone and ice grow.
Anger beckoning hate,
begging to harbor it soundly.
And I'm susceptible, having been made a weak shell.
My eyes encountering a new emptiness of low temperature.
My new self refusing hell, but where is the desire for heaven?
Its a disgusting feeling, new to me.
Stubborn against my tears, in attempts to force it out of me.
Tears over my former self.
I'm poison, only now.

Does anyone remember?

Does anyone remember?

I was given an angel once,
who surely could not remember
or who had possibly caught glimpse of my former self,
which could not be enough.
And yet, what was enough, was that this angel
made me remember.
There were promises,
of warm, and safe embraces,
which could melt the new ice.
And these embraces were the only true act,
that could force the anger away.
Tears were given a new life,
and their warmth was love.
I'm loving in a new way;
with gentle hands and generous arms,
genuine smiles and kind words.
A God-sent angel to heal my heart.
To renew me and teach me loving.

*I remember.

If I think back far enough,
I can recall
bamboo forests.
And when there was money enough
for the big fireworks on New Year's,
to illuminate those forests.
And if I think hard enough,
I can remember that swing in the front yard.
And swinging - from my father's arms.
And I believe I can recall
coming home to my mother.
Back when she would spend her days
painting and gardening and cooking and baking.
I can still taste the orange Spanish rice.
Sunlight filtered on the hardwood floors and wall paper,
and the cats seemed to appreciate it.
And I remember the tadpole pond,
and Grandma next door.
And I know Halloween was a must.
Have I strayed so far,
that these are now only memories to miss?
Can I revert to my father's arms,
and my mother's song?
What can I do?
I'm stuck in the pattern of growing up.

It must have been late autumn,
though I was too young, so I can't be sure.
And while most would remember a grown man cry,
I only recall the lack of tears.
It must have been late autumn,
or else why the demand for firewood,
and the repeated chop of the axe?
Until it missed.
Down to the bone, possibly a scream,
but no tears...
"Why aren't you crying, Daddy? Doesn't it hurt?"
I remember considering him the strongest man this world has to offer.
And it could be true in a physical sense.
But its not really about the body, is it?

Now I don't remember the season, but I remember the pain.
Of course, not his pain; but ours.
They left the night before for the operating room.
And left us to be alone that morning.
It's not often you sense the love between endlessly quarreling brother and sister.
But it's there. And it surfaced.
And its not often you see a grown man cry.
But the tears are there. And they surfaced.
The fear of losing a brother; a son.
Not someone else, not another soul to leave him:
I could hear his pleas beyond his rambling words.
So it's not really about the body, is it..?

It happened almost 12 years prior,
but photos seem to bring back everything, don't they?
And as I flipped through the pages of that tattered album,
I pointed out one to him.
But his eyes focused on a different picture entirely.
Only a few memories of that man reside in the corners of my mind.
But there he was, with me in his arms,
smiling as if he could never be sad.
But a family holds its secrets, and he became the biggest one.
Why are you crying, Daddy? Does it still hurt?
After all of these years - of course.
It's the memories, the soul, the breaking heart.
Its the love, and the love that was taken away, and the family.
And I believe this was the silent lesson I learned through a grown man's tears.
That it's not really about the body.

Unto dust I shall return.
But I need more than the dirt I was created from.
I need, I crave for my ashes to be infused with something more...
If I left now, what would I turn into?
The dust I leave behind will still be dust,
yet uninfused with what my soul should be.
I'm striving. I'm working. I'm learning.
I'm learning to love.
I can't leave behind black soot.
My ashes must be like those blessed palms;
fit not to be trampled over,
but humble enough to be walked upon.

I'm easily swayed by the light breeze.
Just a feather in the wind,
but its weight is enough when I'm empty.
It'll cause me to fall and crash with great speed,
since my bones are brittle and old.
My heart struggles to beat,
and my mind - easily swayed.

Breaking my barriers.
Give in, dont give up, give in.
God help me; I need the strength of heaven in my chest.
I need the breath of angels to push me on.
Don't leave me floating in the light breeze.
It tastes so sweet...
I'm forgetting who I was when I was grounded.
I need wisdom to know the difference,
between ocean air and angel breath.

I can't stand the way he lies there.
I know he hears my sad, sweet songs
playing miles away.
And I know who's on his mind.
I know what clouds his eyes.
I understand, I understand.
And I've been there with the heart loud in your ears,
and the hands that refuse to steady.
But he's too young.

Hollow eyes, you eat me alive.
I'm swept into your emptiness,
I can't survive.
I'm surrounded by these hollow eyes,
eating at my soul, trapping me in the dark;
tell me how to be fulfilling,
not that you'd know.

I hate that look I keep getting.
When the universe shone back at me, and I was complete.
Now they're empty.
And they're still dark, but without the light that the cosmos provides.
Such hollow, hollow eyes.

Hollow eyes, words stripped bare.
Pretend I don't notice, pretend I don't care.
Be fulfilling, I understand.
I understand; no I don't.
These hollow eyes have become my own.

They've become my own.

How does the astronaut feel,
after having sat countless nights in solitude,
staring up at the off-black sky,
and falling in love with the stars;
How does he feel when he approaches
for the first time the grandeur of a planet in space?
Can you imagine?
Every impossible thought taking shape?
Tangible; in his eyes, in his very reach.
My fingers won't stop trembling,
Please don't take it away.

There is fake silver that hangs upon my chest,
and in time it will chip away.
Silver, sliver by sliver,
until it's nothing.
But for now it protects me, and brings mental peace.

I'm drawing from the small things.
I steal the life to feed my starving words,
so as not to write with poison,
so as not to taint blameless paper.
I'm drawing from the small things.

There are red roses in my room, on black wood,
and when the sunlight filters slightly,
well it's the most beautiful sight.
And in time the petals will shrivel and fall.
But for now, I smile -
and it seems to be enough.

I'm falling in love with the small things,
tremendous in my eyes, tremendous at my fingertips.

When she laughs, my mind clears,
if only for a second, but I'm grateful for the life she offers me,
unknowingly.

And I didn't realize my arms had enough strength
or were even worthy to hold the world;
my world.
They tremble, and I'm afraid they'll give out.
But I cannot deny that I'm in love with the life I hold close.

I feed off of the small, tremendous instances.
They redeem my thoughts, thus my words.
For the sake of peace of mind, and inkflow.

If beginning wasn't so difficult,
I'd start with your heart.
With my head pressed against your chest,
from the very beginning,
I trust it -
it and it's racing rhythm.
I think perhaps only half of what I hear is your own.
Because half of it is mine,
as I hear the blood rushing through my ear.

If middles didn't need to be so complex,
I'd elaborate; gently.
The simple truth is that my heart doesn't even deserve yours.
Mine is cold, and closed, and controlled.
"Love who I say to love."
But yours is open, and patient, and loving,
and I learn from it, as it slowly thaws my own.

If endings didn't hurt,
I'd like to say your heart is the end of me.
I think your heart compells me to love more freely,
for mine beats a different and new beat;
it beats for you.
And I believe I could love your heart,
until the day my own gives out.

My mother and my sister used to tell me
that going to sleep crying
would only result in nightmares.
But the tears would keep on falling
from my little brown eyes.
So one of them would sit on my bed
and hold me in their arms,
against their chest,
while stroking my hair.
They'd shush away my fears,
my sadness, my anger,
until good dreams were guaranteed.
I need someone right now,
to hold me in their arms,
accept my tears against their chest,
stroke my hair,
and shush away my fears.
I'm terrified of the nightmares.

"I'm beautiful."
If I write these words
enough times on this fragile skin,
maybe it will sink low enough
into my veins
and *become me.
My bloodstream can carry the message farther
than I'll ever be able to.

Do you hear the silent screams?
Buried within the ink?
The covers bound my cries,
but the pages let them go.
Do you see what I'm saying...?

Do you read these as only words?
Do you understand why I write?
Do you know who I am?

Have you seen what I've seen?
Felt what I've felt?
Loved who I've loved?
Are these just words to you...?

Read again.
Look deeper.
*You'll understand.

the absence of you,
is the absence
of the well-known me.

I'm as stubborn as my father,
and as paranoid as my mother.
I'm a product of my parents.
This is what they left me.
I'm begrudging and cold,
tired and impatient,
and terrified to walk alone at night.
I'm a product of my parents.
This is what they left me.
But I'm no-nonsense and selective,
and that has fared me well.
I've been forced into humility,
until humility is what I am.
And I have no eye for the temporal.
And since my mother bore me,
I sing too loud,
and love too hard.
All the while with paranoia
- but stubbornness.
Because I'm a product of my parents.
And this is what they left me.

Don't fall in love with me.
I've witnessed far too many people fall in and out of love,
to believe in such a silly phrase.
I believe in that love the way a little girl believes in magic and fairytales.
All starry-eyed and fluttery.
And when you grow up, its an evident lie.
I'll believe in that "love" when wishing on stars actually works.
So don't.
Don't fall in love with me.
Instead make a choice.
Choose to love me.

The Love I do not Want,
is one revolving around feelings.
They're temporary.
Evanescent.
Fleeting.
So when they leave, love does too.
And seeing this has torn me apart.
Over and over and over.
This is what it does to you.
It screws you up.
It leaves you fragile and thin and weak.
I may be so **** uncertain as to what it is I want.
But I know,
oh I know what I do not want.

The stain of salty tears
on the underside of my pillow,
and trust issues.
Because nothing and no one is true,
or real.
And all that's left in me is the
pain in my chest
as my heart wrenches,
since the memories are tainted.
All I feel now is disdain.
You left anger in my heart and soul.
Shivers and a Hollow Feeling.

I tore down the pictures of you off of my wall,
and threw them violently in a cluttered drawer.
(Notice I did not burn them.)
But I could not tear you out of my head.
I could not rip you out of my heart.
It seems as if the strings of my heart
have entangled to form your face,
or spell your name,
and to cut the threads would **** me.
You are a lethal drug -
an addiction that kills slowly and silently.
Memories of you have found their way
into the inner workings of my mind.
But there is no solace for you in the
crevices of my thoughts.
Not anymore.

when I'm
outrageously
terrified
- out of
my mind -
to love you;
and I choose
to do it
every
day.

I really admire you, you know that?
I love looking over to you in a dimmed classroom,
and seeing the same thing every morning.
An open notebook, begging you to write more.
You're like me.
We find such comfort in the pencil and paper.
They are our relief and escape.
This, my friend, is the way we pour forth our souls.

I thought the other day the right words could never leave my mouth.
They bubble up in my chest and in my throat.
Rising, rising, risi-
then escape through my fingertips.

You rip the paper out and delicately fold it up.
Gently now, those words are precious.
So I know that with a great deal of trust
you place it in my hand.
This, my friend, is the way we connect.
And the level on which we connect is a transcendental one.
Our words are perpetuated through ink and graphite.
This is the reason for my admiration.
You understand.
You're like me.

Let me in, my love, let me in.
So I can know what I'm loving, let me in.
So I can know who I'm loving.
Your eyes are just mirrors,
I'm looking right at myself,
I know myself — let me in.
Your tears break my heart, yet they're empty to me.
Let me in, my love, let me in.
So I can know who I'm loving, let me in.

I give my heart away too easily.
But manipulation is a sin,
so call me an angel and I'll call you the fallen.
Now your flames are close by, I can feel the warmth.
But who wants hell when you've tasted heaven?
Like a child that never learns
I keep returning to the burn.
So call me an angel and I'll call you the tempter.
Innocent and naive, yet wanting,
So if not fire, then venom.
I'll seek out every evil to get my fill.
So call me the fallen,
and you're the very snake.

Tell me... Tell me where I messed up.
I could never solve the simplest problems
and you were a complex maze.
Tell me... Where did my calculations go wrong?
After holding on for so long...
They all fell away.
The embers in your eyes are dying.
The warmth you offered me has fled.
The ashes now are rising
and the darkness, drowning me again.
Tell me, tell me my old friend
the way to once more kindle the flame;
How to reignite the fire,
and illuminate this lonely pain.

I wasn't another code for you to crack.
My life isn't another book you can rip from my mouth
and throw on the shelf.
I shook off my dust cover for you,
but you sneezed and laughed it off.
Will I ever be enough?
You were in love with novels,
and so mine was convenient.
Will I ever get it back?
Take a look at your account. Those fines are adding up.
And I'm afraid your destruction will stem
from the pieces you read,
you loved,
you kept.
Here's the fault with getting involved:
You don't know yourself.
Instead you tore out my pages,
and threw me on the shelf.

They scream to me:
"You'll never love another,
if you don't first love yourself."
And I almost believed it that day,
as I sat in front of that familiar dreaded glass.
Tears stained my cheeks,
and my body curled up as I shrank
to resemble how small I felt.
Head pounding, face swollen and red;
they were just more things to hate.
So my shaking hands could not show
one kind, loving gesture to the body they belonged to.
But no.
I refuse to believe the common phrase.
Because these rough hands can touch another's life.
This beaten and withered heart can love someone else.
And it does.
I love her, and him, and her, and him and him, and her.
I don't believe it. I'll never believe it.
For though I could never love myself,
I can and I will love someone else.

Never to be like that beautiful soul that wept,
under the heartbreak of 30 years,
I pray - uncertain of any favorable result whatsoever.
Oh those uncertainties, they are my heart's corruption.
So I listen to them.
That booming voice raised in anger -
(I've heard it too many times) -
anger amid her distrust.
But why give her a reason in the first place?

So thank you - for all the tears streaming down my face.
Thank you for all of my own distrust.
Thank you for my unfaithfulness.
Thank you for my disbelief.
Thank you for my fear.
What a tremendous example you've been.
You've raised me so well.

I'm just another Lotus-Eater.
You leave the sweetest taste in my mouth.
Lips tingling, heart racing, palms sweating, body shaking.
The sweetest poison that I could find,
you tire me out and cloud my mind.
You are my lotus and I never want to return home.

My heart, My mind, My soul,
could never crave the temporal.
I joined the others on the stage that day,
with hopes - not too high; but hearts open wide.
Yet young lungs breathed in every word that she spoke.
"Our art is of the moment."
Never were words so true.
And never has any moment been so... captivating.
Tears fell as she offered her wisdom,
in interpretations of the text, the rhythm, the tune.
Bodies shaked as we emptied our very lives
into the artwork - the masterpiece...
the moment.
And passion fell again on our cheeks.
And her cheeks.
And the audience's flooding cheeks.
"Our art is of the moment" resounded
somewhere deep under even the booming voices.
Our art was of the moment.
And that moment was simply... transcendental.

"You'll never sing again the way you did just now,
will you?"
"No"

"Such sad, sad eyes, my love."
- the words of my mother to me,
on that cold, cold night.
I blink away tears, heart writhing in my chest.
It's okay.
It hurt me, my love, but in the most beautiful of ways.
For you, I'd trade these sad, sad eyes
for your breathtakingly happy eyes.
And perhaps one day I will be so close to you,
I'll see those squinting eyes for myself.
And we'll share joyful eyes together.

There's tiny shells in your laugh;
they bring out a vibrant pearly color.
And the corners of your eyes squint;
in the most peculiar manner.
I think I'm falling in love.
There's tiny bells in my throat;
with pitches much too high.
I hear it overwhelmingly,
ear-piercing.
And you simply have no clue.
Oh, how I yearn to trade in those tiny bells.
I'll trade them for a train whistle,
a fog-horn,
a siren.
So maybe your ears will hear the ringing.
Above the laughter, and wave of pearl,
you'll hear my "I love you's".
And maybe the corners of your eyes will squint,
in the most peculiar manner.
And I'll fall again in love with you.

Here's the cold, hard truth:
You terrify me.
Us, together — it terrifies me.
I'm a sucker for spoilers,
And I'm offered not one.
And when I was 10, I was scolded
— told to never blindly trust.
But isn't that what this really is?
I wish you would wrap your arms around me.
Maybe then I'd feel some security.
I feel safe with my head against your heart;
It's a moment I can control.
But when I fall into your embrace,
I wish you'd give it your all.
Because right now it just feels like a blind trust fall.

Let me bury my head into your chest.
I'll fall in love with your heartbeat,
and its slow, rhythmic dance.
(Or is it lively?)
Forgiveness goes a far way,
if it's an entirely different tempo than my own.
I'll fall in love with the way they learn to waltz together.
And I'll admire it as if it's  
the most beautiful thing I've known.

There once lived a man.
Whose face I don't remember.
My father's brother (I am told),
Whose kindness I can't forget.
A man of solitude,
quietness,
love.
(But these are all stories).
And his gentleness was a scream that was silenced,
as he perished under a broken heart...
Such a common, common, tragedy...
Why?
Shouldn't our minds comprehend it yet?
Our hearts are our greatest wonders.
They are noble gifts.
But they are the most delicate of all presents.
And time and time again we wrap them up and give them to those
who have no use for them;
or simply no desire.

Don't love me - I'm messy.
Don't love me - I'll fall.
I'm the most undeserving.
I can't give you my all.
Don't love me; it's not right,
and I'll only let you down.
Please don't love me, I beg you.
I'm just so scared right now.

Love me, I need you,
else I'll remain on the ground.
Show me I'm deserving
and capable of loving all around.
Love me, it's all I want -
to be shown what I'm worth.
Please love me, I beg you.
When I'm lost, you're my north.

Guide me home and put my fears to rest.
If you've loved me at my worst, you'll surely love me at my best.

There was a girl in my class,
a girl with a boy about two years' time.
And her eyes burned and screamed,
and I'm sure those frequent tears stung,
when no one could help her
or save her from the net she was caught in
Now let me say, there are far too many "loves" to choose from,
in this world where words and meanings are confused.
I still believe love can be beautiful.
To be lost can be breathtaking,
in the most wonderful of ways.
(I write as if I am aware...)
But to be trapped? Trapped in a love that is not your own?
No - give me strength in love,
should it reach me.
Give me strength in love,
and wisdom to avoid such snares.

I wish to make this promise:
of reaching through the grief-stricken years,
and into the parts of my soul that have been blessed
with a love I have never beheld.
And through this, encounter a willing piece,
that i can offer entirely to you,
until my whole being complies.
I wish to make this promise:
that I can soon release the fear I have been embracing
since i had the strength to hold on.
"I'm so paranoid about the past,
I can't seem to realize you are my future."
These are the words you spoke to me,
But that very paranoia suffocates me as well.
This is the promise I wish to make:
that I will practice deep-breathing
until I am yours.

A ghost.
Caught in the middle road -
between you and me.
And I'm haunted on this earth,
in sleep and in my earliest waking hours,
or when I'm least expectant,
or every time I blink.
Hear my cry:
Take these ghosts from me,
take it all away.
And you do, my love, you do.
With every close embrace,
there's simply no space
for any ghost between.
With every tear upon my cheek,
they escape,
and soon I'll be free.

I'll always love my mother.
But I yearn to be drastically different
in the ways that I love my children.
Time and energy.
Interest and equality.
Authenticity.
Truly,  I am aware of the difficulties my mother endures.
And I can only offer prayers to Him who listens,
that I will be able to devote myself entirely.
Each child will be aware of my deep love,
compassion and care.
And never will it be a question in their young minds.
This is my prayer to Him who listens.
That I will love drastically differently,
with all of my heart.

"Don't love him!" they screamed.
But they choked on their words,
on their own vile hipocracy rising up from their chests.
There was no love there.
And I was disgusted with those complaints,
and the bitter words of my father resounded in my heart.
No, I would never love the way you "loved".

A love like my brother's was the love I strived after.
A love so pure, innocent, and profound.
True.
And it was through this realization that I recognized my fault.
Not through orders from those insincere in their own actions.
I search for that beautiful, God-given love,
but the faith I had clung to so tightly is slipping away,
through my now feeble grasp.
Still I will never love the way he did;
nor engage in such a love.

I hate that picture of us.
I despise it because I know now,
you did not love me in that particular moment.
You lied through gritted teeth,
and a smile that made me love you like no other.
And I believed you.
*I believed you.

And I came to realize that all these common eyes of brown ever wanted was to gaze upon the marvelous sight of you.
For a time my only concern was the vast cosmos,
and my mind attempted constantly to comprehend it.
But had the foolishness finally fled from my heart?
It posed as the wise one when it turned my focus to you.
And I fell for the sun's rays in the depth of your eyes
and concluded that I was interested only in the constellations formed from the freckles scattered on your cheeks.
The only space that fascinated me was the space existing between your fingers.
Yes, I assumed that my senseless heart had regained its wit.
Little did I know.
For once a stargazer, always a stargazer,
and my heart had become a fool for the universe in you.

To no one really,
I saw her again... and I loved it... I couldn't help it. She was there tonight. A white dress ******* in the back in the most childlike manner, and soft brown curls loosely falling upon light blue lace. She looked different. Perhaps she had matured since we had last seen each other... (but that wasn't very long ago). And yet there existed still a sense of familiarity, which I did not doubt would remain. We talked very little and I guessed she had forgotten about us. After all, it was years ago. But then she pulled on my hand with that same mischievous grin and dragged me to the floor. We laughed like we used to and danced for the first time. I had never been that close to her.

I saw her again... and I loved it... I couldn't help it. She stood at the bottom of my stairwell. She was watching our parents speak - so "attentively". But I knew she wasn't listening. Her attention span is far too short for meaningless small talk. My eyes always found their way back to her. Sometimes for a second, and then sometimes I would forget to look away... But she would remind me by glancing over at me. Why did I cross her mind?

I saw her again... and I loved it... I couldn't help it. We'd been keeping in touch for the first time in forever. She was there. The same girl I had always known. Straight hair and bright eyes, always with the widest smile. We spent the entire night together. Teasing, Playing, Laughing. Always laughing. And we danced. Was I the only one with tears in my eyes? I couldn't have been the only one with shaky hands and a wild heart.

I know I'll see her again... and I know I'll love it... I love her... I can't help it.

I've always liked my eggs slightly over-cooked.
But there I was on a Monday morning trying to do the "right thing" and make some breakfast
and my mind's lost again.
And somehow my thoughts intermingle with reality -
I'm too caught up with you,
then acrid scents sting my nostrils
and I look down to a black skillet.