There will be so many
I disappoint that I,
content,
do not heed.
My mother —
Who cooks when I am not hungry.
My sister —
who frowns at my blemishes
and plucks my unibrow ferociously.
The poet slash
musician slash
magician
who calls me to ****
when his calendar is empty.
I bailed on them,
like the similes that no longer serve me,
like the poems I tossed as therapy —
You know —
The ones spun from circular conversations —
gut feelings supplemented by text messages
when you're half paying attention,
half wishing the space between buzzes would lengthen.

There will be so many irked that I,
content,
remain unresponsive.
They wish my mouth wide open,
drooling,
trained to heed queries,
They pull my time like teeth,
Blinded by the sting,
I can’t see the point
of fearing their disappointment.
Because there will be so many I disappoint,
but I, at peace.

Signed on for the strong game
But under some different name
And with a mask on:
Looking like
The person you are in your dreams.

Oh such long nights
And fits and fights
Spitting sour lights
Into my eyes
So I can see more clearly.
I push away those whims
To hold you dearly
But I can still feel the heat of your hand
That I almost reached out for.

i often times get distracted from myself
by the person i like to think that i am

she's a ******* catch
     a cash-in-hand
     done-deal find
worth every dime

i'm tangled up line
     woven into the creek-bed
that couldn't even catch the sunlight

but it's alright

     i got a few coats of gold krylon
hiding my rust from the mirror

I'm sorry, I drank all your sake
Again, I left you some money
    On the desk - I'll be gone in the morning
      Like the rain.

You have always forgiven - forgotten
  A tinture of both mixed in the palette
    of your heart withstanding
      Me.  My black swathes

Of Beauty and Pain. You conceive
  What I feel when I glance
    At the flowers I trampled
     With my boots

Yes, I've been meaning to buy you flowers
  But it's too cliche - too conventional
   For our approximations of love
    Like cherry blossoms in the wind

So instead, I drank all your sake. I'm sorry
   Again, I left you some money
    On the desk - I'll be gone in the morning
     Like the rain.

I'm trading sticks of cigarette for a poem
Bottles of beer for a few more
Whiskeys make me forlorn
Why not a few more poems
So I scribble and scribble some more

I'm trading my loneliness for lines
Rhymed or rhymeless, why should I mind
When the please the eyes and tickles the mind
I sure will memorize and mimic them like a mime
So I'm still scribbling on this torn paper of mine

I'm trading my hearts pain
Trading it for a paper and a pen
Like a painter ready to paint
I deep my petite paint brush in a bowl of paint
Dap dap, little dots, strokes and dashes as I dare to paint
Little by little the whole picture is becoming plain

I'm trading all love's tears
Tears shade in secrecy for a poem shared publicly
Though seemingly absurd but poems brings this inconceivable peace.
So I'm scribbling and scribbling my way to serenity.

I trade it all for a piece of poem
I may not have made the point
But I've washed clean my plough
And starring at this beautiful not-so-beautiful poem
I have read and reread it that it is starting to sound like a song.
Reading one last time, "my best trade ever".