Flooding misery
in the midst of writing
Not poetry nor stories
but a pretentious resume

to be boxed
in cubicles
lies the enemy
of untold and stranded ideas  

Drowning in capitalism
Here I am in pessimism
for the natural rebel within
wants to break a system

Blessed are the papers
that the poet writes on
for they will be filled
with mind and soul

Pieces of letters
Infinitely watering
the growing lilacs and daisies
planted in broken soils

Of moralities and immoralities
The curious wind hovers
Of fantasies and realities
It lands to the flowers

complex worlds
In the Paper, there it blooms
Unheard words
In the Paper, it unfolds

Covering scars or --
Opening wounds
through tattooed verses
of stories untold

Eyes and ears
in desperate propositions
Weapons and swords
in silent revolutions

A wondrous space.
Perhaps, it's an art exhibition.
of black inks in white textures,
the cheapest I've known.

I am naked with my clothes on

As we bend the norms of togetherness

Sipping the thrill of loneliness

With two beds and overflowing bills

Messed in between laundries



Of December escapisms

we are wrecking creatives

in the stillness of traditions

Screaming in karaoke echoes

I wonder,

Are you asleep my neighbor?



Singing Alicia, Miley, and Kelly

It’s almost past two

Now, it’s not an hour of blues

Our body clocks gone wild

Are we high?

No.



We are such a sight.

This must be the sin of nakedness

No, this is not about ***.

We paid the wages of honesty,

leading to an opened door

Of two people in a white room

Exposed internally.

Curtains hustling in my old windows

Shadows looming in fainted silhouttes

You draw nearer as I faced south

With blankets filled with sorrow

Escalating to your calmness

Your hands enveloped me

A sudden flashforward:

What are we again?

That summer night I knew

My heart was crossing the line

For in the eyes of hypocrisy

Our intimacy was a crime

I left these vivid imageries

Of the remainders of the past

Of our convoluted label

we called …