There are poems lingering
in the pit of my stomach,
syllables hidden in the
depths of the bags under
my eyes,
sonnets cowering in dried out
veins
and haikus dissolving, drowning
in my arteries
at the pale midnight hours
that no paper
could ever materialise.

i) my father never taught me how to shave, so I guess
that’s why a razor to him and I are two separate entities;
a symbol of his pride yet a symbol of my sorrow.

ii) and it’s not my mother’s fault that I am the way I am,
neither is it my own. but when my wrists twitch at the hour
when I miss the way she used to smile; I blame myself.

iii) they say family is in your blood and that will never change.

iv) if so, I am related to healing wounds and the wisdom-less
circles of the trunk of a mind not made for the kind of tired
sleep can never cure. I am the father of my own mistakes
and forever the child of a forever without a beginning.

v) not even the poetry in my arteries can save me now.

I still find myself
feeling your skin
in the spaces between
bed-sheet creases

and if
missing you is like
swerving into
oncoming traffic,
then tonight
I’m sleeping
in the road.

In truth
I'm happy
But I used to be
Quite broken
Hence the poems
And the heartache
And the sadness
And the hurt
Of course
Now I realize
If I press enter
At the right time
It can be considered
Art.

our love is my daily coffee
the first thing i look forward to
in the mornings.

the only difference
is that i can't add sugar
when our love is bitter,
and you've always had a thing
for liking your coffee black.

Your still drowning in my mind,
           you do this on purpose.

                                                Calamity on the surface,

waves of comm
                             uni
                                      cation dead

Floating in the ocean of my head

                                        Among the graveyard of ships,
       and all left for dead.
                                                                   Lies all of the things

that we left
                                    unsaid.

I'd give up my left arm to always be right beside her. My right arm for her to know she's what I have left and both arms to be able to hug her when's she away. I just don't think I have enough to give to get the courage to tell her when she's here.

Red is the color of freedom
Red is the color of rage
Rage is the voice of reason
Reason the key to the cage

I am guilty of all you've been told
I admit to being cold,
Mean, inconsiderate and selfish
Not minding this beauty without blemish

Have I used you? yes, guilty
And I will do it again as need be
Forgive me for the wrong I have committed
Though a wrong carefully coined and crafted

I have used you in so many ways
May be those even wrong,
Dear poetry, you must endure the pain
Because whenever I get the chance, I will use you again.