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the doc said,
"try to trust people
more. show them that
you care. tell them
how you feel."

to which i agreed.
maybe, it will
help me.
clear my head.
fix me.
by letting others
see, just how broken i am
and allow them to
try and put
me back.

the next day i said,
"ma. wanna read
my poems?"

she said,
"im busy honey, maybe later."

i never asked again.
and she forgot.
i never went back to doc,
and my mom still
thinks i hate her.
meh
we all have a layer of paint,
settling like second skin on our bodies.
don't even deny it,
just because nobody sees.
when the darkness have risen,
so do we, along its rough edges
secrets crust, faces emerge
and we bathe under their grudges.
knives are sharpened,
tongues begin slashing,
and you don't even care
you don't even care
you don't even care
she was gone

before i could even tell her,
that her voice was loud enough,
and the way she colored me
never matched anyone’s.

the missed years
and wasted sunsets
now sit across the table,
mocking me into submission.

there was a lot i could’ve done for her.
it now rests upon my shoulder,
they form like alien letters
and weigh like blood.

the legends are real,
listen - i know now.
there is nothing heavier
than bearing who you were everyday.
this is the year to be free. please please, if you’re still hurting - i hurt with you, and so know that i guess it’s okay to get better. we will get better. happy new year, poets. may our love never die.
here is my heart,
here it is.
you are reading it.

"why do poets
have this courage?"

"what courage?"

"to be open."

"we were the caged.
we were the voiceless.
but now,
we are not.
don't let our courage make you believe
we have always been brave."
i love you all just wanna say this
and so i crawl back again
even though
i promised not to return

the sun has melted my wings
and the blades of grass
marred my flesh

the earth turned its back on me
so i'm sorry
i'm sorry,
for once again,
here's my poetry.
poetry,  i'm sorry i ever left.
as i'm laying down tonight
i think of how exhausting it is to wash you off my fingers
even if it's not like i ever get to hold your hand
or touch you, for that matter.
but everynight i have to wash your essence off my fingers
like trying to get rid of gasoline but always ending up
setting myself aflame. and that despite
knowing how dangerous and hazardous that **** could be
you just couldn't stop because you love the smell of gasoline
that fills up your lungs like pumps of adrenaline
right before the stench of your own burning flesh
chokes you to death. most nights, i wash you off like paint.
you can tell that i'm trying to forget what
i bled after your face appeared on the plain canvass
when my hand automatically reaches up and
perfectly colors your lips, and i couldn't help
but resemble them to pastel pink petals
of the roses growing in royal gardens
and i know i'm fooling everyone
making them believe that such expertise
is achieved because
your bottom lip have felt my gentle ****** when i
don't even know how your lips would feel when they quiver
under a curious and longing touch.
so i watch the colors spiral down the drain.
i watch my hands brush against each other
so intensely, trying to scrub the paint gone even
if it won't go away. even if the blood is clean.
even if i look clean.
how can loving you secretly be ever clean?
i'm scared it will never go away.
i am a painter in my own sense, capturing a glimpse
of something so intoxicating and aesthetically forbidden
then turning it into something tangible.
this is how painters show that their hearts
collapse with just a name
with just a glance not meant for their way.
and they paint what little of the hope
that shouldn't have been there in the first place
and every night. every single night they would aim
tirelessly to turn it into something they could allow.
something that could exist not only in my head.
something that i can call mine even if you
don't know that i am yours
and i knew this because your face
have begun to fill every blank wall
in my ******* house and i wonder how it is
possible to fall in love with someone the whole world
believes you shouldn't.
they say that when we turn our hands into fists
it is the size of our hearts.
and sometimes after the long hours of painting
i wash my paint-stained hands clean of
an abstract myriad of yellow and blue and black
and red. red for blood. red for love. red for fire.
i wash my paint-stained hands
turning them into fists
so maybe, just maybe
it will be the same
as getting rid of the colors off my young broken heart.
colors for you.
yet i always end up washing them off
with ******* gasoline.
and you still dare to call me 'smart'
i am an arsonist and a painter. i burned while i burst into colors. and you...you were the one that blurred my distinction between the two.
golden written poems
reflect my aching soul,
i hope you see
what you're looking for.
and though it shows
that try you must,
what you should find,
you'll never know.

i won't apologize for,
the run down home
with faded bright paint,
art hung on tilted walls.
it served as solace
when nights turned sour,
my clandestine sanctuary
in the darkest hour.

it may seem to you
how unconventional -
that of my liquor at dawn,
and breakfast at twilight.
when i breathe fire,
i do not wince,
it triggers my passion -
my soul just grins.

you, however
speak in arrogant tongues,
because you can't see my heart.
the noise you make,
repudiates my art.
though you feel superior
and put me beneath your boot
i'll rise in time,
and retrieve my worth.

i'm different, it's true --
disarray of vivid colors,
an underrated being
of unseen collections.
and so i should not
explain to you just why,
it's useless to show you
for you see in only black and white.
it's all water off a duck's back, darl. you are fine just as you are.
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