i collect patches of poetry
and pluck them out of day-to-day musings
of a woman born before her time,
as she leisurely runs her hands
across and over too ripe fruits.
i do not complain nor place them
in tattered and worn baskets.
instead, the fruits of this history fall to the ground.
unabashed, they line up with blades of grass.
the wind is strong,
there is a clash.
my words tangle like the branches of unkept bushes
- poetry is enough, i know. i see.
a silhouette of bible verses and revelations coming
from inside me.
reverie and rhythm, festival sighs.
it takes 20 years worth of courage to stay still,
upright.
the berries would taste wonderful, i know.
but the soil is hungrily swallowing my ankles -
serving justice for my leaving,
for my formulating, and then abrupt untangling.
my adoration turning into a mirage of nothing.
the retribution is famished yet true.
and so in my head, it grows, and grows, and grows.
but i can taste the fruits now.
no rhythm, no rhyme,
no muse.
i walk away barefoot, onwards, where i am deserved
where i am worth fighting for,
where i am buried but not so i could die,
but so i could be planted.

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.

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.

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."

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 stroke 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'

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.

damage has always been your forte -
an expertise,
your recalcitrant venom.
you annihilate
before they could burn you
and your fortress is painted
in a deep, metallic rouge.

you wear the word 'vicious'
like a crown;
loyal weapon tucked neatly in the
taverns of your mouth.
you are adroit with words, after all.
such a fine weapon,
such a clean cut.

realms bow down, subjects to terror.
sweet vilification's best served
in your court.
not one soul would dare to beard
the lion,
no single breath,
shall make your empire topple.

the caucus adjourns; your grip is slipping
you may be the head,
but we
are
the
body.

your realm will rot
from the inside.

we comfort our souls with lies
and we
burn our homes to be free.

we dab perfume on our dead bodies
and we
stitch smiles on faces to be happy.

we turn up the music (too loud)
to be deaf upon the cries of our names
wedged between curses
and scorching regrets.

we try to dance along with the songs
of ghosts -
whose skeletons have been
long forgotten in our antique closets.

we drain bottle after bottle,
light a cigarette after another,
**** ourselves so we don't die -
a surrender to loneliness is worse, after all.

and so...

we say goodbye without considering
that we are worthy enough to stay,
we apologize for the words
we actually meant to say.

we crawl back to our hollowed grounds -
yet we love with the strength of that
who has never been loved.

we travel barefoot on unknown,
desolate roads
in the hopes to find where we belong.

we do the mistakes we've done before,
not because we are stupid,
but god, because we've learned.

poems written
out in vain
love has kept me blind
ambrosial promises
turned rosy skies
****** red
‘it is alive’ they cried
screamed to the heavens
the gods no longer
listening
mustered the courage
swallowed the blades
revolution in cages
no longer afraid
love has kept me blind
but not for long anymore
now we arise
the arsonist is knocking
we transform to nebulas
rip off dead skin
wash off our sins
love has turned me
to a monster
so how shall i begin?

today
i blew a candle
and wished happiness for everyone
except myself

the fireworks made me
see the word 'alive'
they said people like me
couldn't feel things
but i did that very night
the page was flipped
we embark on time
maybe this year 'round
we'll do it right
but darling, did the fireworks
make you feel alive too?
make you feel hope
make you want to explode
make you want to be beautiful
make you want to stay
make you scream
make you smile
make you stare
and say 'hey, look at that,
i made it through again."

we loved each other
with a love too catastrophic
and consuming
for mere teenage vessels
to carry.

it was too demanding
required too much thinking
made us bleed
without flinching

our hearts were baby birds
being forced by this magnitude
of feelings to jump
without knowing how to fly.

our hearts were still
starting to learn
how to love -
and it was too early.
it was too strong.
it was too high.
and babe,
we were too young.

it's getting worse
thunderstorms in my head
it's getting worse
strangling me in bed
help me
help me somebody
untie the ropes
get me to stop
painting on skin
there's too much
red paint within
helpmehelpme
hold my hand just hold
my hand and walk with me
get me out of this storm
with the sunlight
in your eyes
i want to breathe again
without having
to **** something
inside me
it's getting worse
help me
it's getting worse
**** me -
**** it -
what's the difference
between the two
when you want it to end.

i want you to get tired
tired enough to leave me
so that i'll know
that all the people
in my life
left for a reason
that way i'll understand
how i became like this
so lonely
so broken
so afraid of love and trust
as if it'll burn me
and maybe
you'll prove me right
that i was never enough
to make people stay.

but still i hope,
you'd be the one
to prove me wrong.

how i wish
one day you'd find
the one.

she - who would
know you
more than you do.
he - who would
care enough
to repair you.
she - who would
know what
this means to you.
he - who would
not be blind,
not be insensitive.
she - who would
see your poetry
and know
it's your heart.

and though
i know bigger
catastrophes deserve
more poems,
that this pathetic
poem is a smoke,
not a cloud.
but i think
it still matters
that you'll
have someone
who will not
close their fists
upon your heart...

...after trusting it with them.

so when you find yours,
find me and tell me
how to find mine.

they say,
"**** kid you write so much"

i say,
"how could i not when my home
was stripped off words
for so long -
so ******* long that my lips cracked
like aged paint tearing off walls.
and i thought my voice
will forever be lost in these desolate rooms
that i learned how to scream
without having to make a noise."

and maybe if they say,
"**** kid you write so well"

i'll reply with a shrug,
"maybe for you...
but i never thought about it
all i know is that i've felt empty
for so long -
for so ******* long that now i let myself write.
write whatever. to fill the empty
rooms with new, colorful paint."

-n.c.

when we break, sometimes we scatter
and that's okay.
what's not okay is
that we often forget
we have the power
the ability
to heal
and mend broken bones
and broken hearts
and broken souls.
it may
never be back to what it was before,
but will be
what it was meant to be all this time.

- stronger

your eyes weren't my first
captors,

but then it's the deepest
one yet.

maybe i was only destined
to marvel,

and all along destined to hurt
again.

she breaks like this,
you just don't know it.

she breaks at 9 am in the dairy lane
of the nearest grocery store with
a list of what to buy and of what
to regret.

she breaks when she laughs but
it just doesn't seem right even
when the joke is so bad it's good
or her.

she breaks as she makes a call
people probably don't expect
because it's just out of the blue
and isn't her at all.

she breaks when the sun has risen
and her skin glows golden and radiant
she'd fix herself breakfast and it's the only
thing she'll attempt to fix.

she breaks when you tell her you love her
and as you treat her with revelation
but the only thing she thinks about
is how her body betrayed her.

she breaks when they call her 'pretty'
and maybe she'll appear flustered
they don't know her mirrors back home
makes her heart recoil.

she breaks when you don't see it
because she doesn't want you to
at all.

she breaks and you won't have a clue
because she doesn't even know that
she is.

i just can't believe how someone like you
could see beauty within someone like me
for i am ultimately certain ambrosial roses
don't dwell with common wildflowers.

because darling when you bloom
i wilt.

for so long i aimed to be different
to the point where i rejected water
only to allow them pool around me
along my fragile bones so much
that my roots were no longer intact.

so tell me would you?

tell me how is beauty
even capable and allowed
to dwell within ostracized places
where there is not enough
sunlight to see it anyway.

there will be times i'll
be writing to find myself

and

there will be times i'll
be writing to lose myself

you'll never know which.

my heart is not made for sunrises
for every uncertain step,
every unwritten day,
is
is
is
is
scary.

my heart performs haphazard thuds
the world spins if by chance, i count
my pale limbs are jerking with fear
i'm nothing but an epitome of doubt

sleep beckons me closer yet it teases
eyes round, yet misty and cautious
saccharine voices in my head drip venom
this war won't end with simply just a truce

for it craves voracious amounts of blood
like honey so sweet, a taste of defeat
but i've been a prisoner longer than fear
inhaling anxiety is now how i breathe.

mother,
tell me about compassion
and how you can impress
flowers bloom and blossom
out of kindness and love.
mother,
tell me about that hope
coursing wildly in your veins,
declaring you as the epitome
of each incandescent promise
and ethereal splendor.
mother,
tell me about bravery
and all the onerous battles
you've withstood,
hands held with that
of another mother -

generation after generation,
history after history.

mother,
tell me about acceptance,
tell me about love,
tell me about misery,
tell me about sacrifice,
tell me about sunsets,
tell me about tomorrows,

and in return i will tell you
about your radiant eyes
and how i've come to fall
in love with every wild flower.
i will tell you
about your smiles
and your heart
and how i've come
to learn about never giving up
despite all odds.
i will tell you
about the strength
i forever owe to you
and how i've come
to treasure what courage is worth.
i will tell you
how phenomenal you are,
how empowering,
how magnificent,
and how this world
is lucky to have you.

if poets ruled the world
i shall be at peace
for no amount of pain
will evolve into bullets
just petals, some wilted
but never not fragrant

watch men and women
and everyone in between
ignite chasms with sparks
then joy will be served
in generous servings
but never ignorant

the angst you give
will be crystals until
forgiveness cradles you
for tears will be valid
the triumphs kiss the sky
but never arrogant

if poets ruled the world
everything will turn
from beautiful to ethereal
wrecks, clouds, smiles,
hearts, storms, bees,
dreams, humanity, havoc.

if poets ruled the world -
watch the world burn
ethereally.
and like a phoenix -
watch it resurrect.

ostensible smiles,
and clammy palms,
whirling thoughts,
and checking if
you're still breathing.

treacherous mouth,
please don't blurt
anything stupid.
you anxious heart,
fulfill normal speed.

the truth is
i feel exposed.
there, i ******* said it -
vulnerable and small,
adorning my favorite
shirt, now soaked
through.

tracing eyes
looking my way,
pinning me down
my seat. i am fine,
i promise.
ignore my unworthy
presence, please.

what i hate the most
are interactions like this -
conversations with the person
trapped inside my head.
she's me. she's
unreasonable, tired
and scared.

for how can a room
full of people
choke you
without laying a finger.
make you squirm.
make you hide further.
shrinking into a corner.
until you're just a
sweaty frigid wall of
anxiety.

i dreamed a pair of arctic eyes that are
so burdened i mistook them as mine
violet frost fingertips caught in time
shackle the withdrawn soul for his ****** crimes
i didn't know who it was
the corner of my eyes darkened in a way i don't recognize
but *******, when my heart would've leapt
i decided to tie it instead
like a beast that is fed
with leftovers and lifetime debts
i discouraged the feeling of staying alive
not long after their blows left me on the brink of defiance or
just waiting
to die

i tamed my heart, pray it won't be naive
because for some reason, that man in my dream
was too late before he realized
when they beat you and you scream in pain
you mustn't be the one to apologize

but for this i want to say sorry -
i'm sorry for befriending my demons enough to know my way
around this hell
and survive