1.
Once, back
in the good old days,
all we had were

words. We were full
of them. Yours, mine, theirs.
The words were good to us;

we respected them,
heard them, breathed
them. Lived them.

Then they were gone.

2.
The other day I
foolishly tried
to bring the good words
back,

except none of mine rose up
to meet yours, and none
of yours but one broke

the silence. The brave,
one word - repetitively spoken and
asked by us both; "good?" "good."
"Good?" "good."

3.
Was it the cold that
froze our words, leaving
us with the first syllable of
The Last Word?

4.
Goodbye.

I am anger
I am frustration
I am hopelessness
I have no indication
Of any recapitulation
Mother of God, help me
Where is my salvation?

I am anger
I am frustration
Choose to accept me
Or die of agitation

Should I change this rhyme?
Or continue writing
Maybe time will fix it
Even though it's not mine

You see man
And ma'am
I have the tendency to
Write truthfully

But life is a *****
Some days feel like
I'm consciously removing
a stitch

I am anger I am frustration
Praying might help you but
There is no really escaping me
Despite trying

I am anger I am frustration
Would you have accepted God's
Invitation to life
if you would've known

That this would be your reality?
I don’t think so haha
How funny is humanity?
Relax, I'm talking sarcastically

However, I am still anger
And I am still frustration
You will rise above me
At one point or the other
I still control your words
but not forever.

Up until last week
when we used to see each other
accidentally in the hallways
of this second home,
we'd nod, sometimes smile,
rarely did we say a "hello"
or any other word.

This week
we saw each other
accidentally -  
or so you think, my dear -
and we hugged,
on the staircase of the third
floor and I was a stair lower than you
and you kissed my head and I rested
for two seconds on your arm and
accidentally (or so it seems,
my dear) kissed it.

Today
I looked into your eyes
and prayed to whoever is there
or is not      that one day
it won't be odd of me to whisper
in your ear, a word or two;
my own synonyms to "I love you."

Today,
after looking into your eyes,
you walked away
but all I wanted to say
was how I now understand
the "falling in love" metaphor
of Hazel Grace.

There is another couple
sitting beside me in my place.

They must be hopelessly
devoted for they chose

this spot to share their
lunch and secret love.

I'm hopelessly devoted
to this poem and

the metaphor I'm about
to break

for my love is
not with me.

As we drove
in pouring rain
a metaphor
found me.

The excitement
rushed through me
as the idea of the birth
of another poem lit my

wiped out morning mind.
"Something about how
raindrops fall and
open up when they

hit the window wall;
just like them," I thought,
"we need to open up
when we fall apart."

But it was 6:30 A.M.
and my mind slipped
into a quick nap and hence,
this poem instead
I trap.

But if I just
stay in bed
for the rest of today
and tomorrow
and the day after

and if I just
not care about studying
for anything and if I just
keep the words inside
and let them rip my veins
and shred me apart

and if I just stop fighting
the pain or if I just stop
moving maybe then
just maybe
I will become too numb
from feeling too much
and I will cease to feel

because all there is right now
is pain and hurt and frustration
and when they are asleep,
happiness is awake

but my happiness is
too fragile, and
like a stranger in a coffee shop,
it has its own depression.

I wrote a poem
about how much
I do not understand
the idea of death

Then I hit
ctrl+A
backspace

That's death.
I still don't understand it.

Sometimes I lie
in bed at night
dying to fall asleep and wishing I do
not wake up
the next day.
(I've had enough.)
But I always do.

Sometimes I lie in bed
at night
so scared of falling asleep;
what if I do
not wake up
the next day?
(I haven't had enough!)
But I always do.

my coffee knows me best
today I've gotten more and more
familiar                 with Bishop.

Elizabeth Bishop
and I find myself sipping hot
caffeine          for the second time today

she was addicted to alcohol
just like I am to caffeine
her glass was filled with whiskey

mine is three quarters water,
one quarter cold milk
two teaspoon of coffee,

and one of sugar.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Today I got to know a perfectionist

a woman poet
whose main feeling was of
alienation         no sense of belonging.

Fascinating      just
like
me.

your
actions
taught me
how to
hate.

I despise
you so much -
I stop caring
about sins
when I think
of forgiving you

I have been told that
my heart feels too
Strongly and that I,
too, must make sure,
regardless, that I be
utterly safe so that it
grows
gracefully and
lightly, unharmed. But
i - fortunately unfortunately am
naturally built to hold
great passions and love.

I took you to my place today
a botanic garden
silent calm cold
breeze swaying
trees
I took you to my place today
close your eyes
turn around
look around
green
everywhere
I took you to my place today
breathe
breathe
smile
sneeze
smile
sweep me off my feet
I took you to my place today
"thank you" "of course"
this has been on repeat
in my mind ever since
I took you to my place today
I'll take you there everyday.

I hear your voice.
It is uplifted by her
passion.
Promised -
the poets
of our past
are present.

I mourn my past profoundly.

my emotions
deprived of
words –
I mourn my
unwritten
emotional words.

do not stop me,
I insist
it is part of the
healing process and I
am processing-

though pardon the sadness
for it is all I am
capable of verbalizing.

This stanza
is not going to
end with a full stop
for I have yet
to figure out how
to stop this

I don't know
I don't have words
maybe it's that I have
too many  
to form a decent piece
to let you know I care
to appreciate you
and thank you for
being there.

But my pen is dry
and my words are
not from within
forgive me
I tried.

It is in these times
that I curse this
beautiful curse
that led me to words
which I chose only
after they chose me.

Often in life,
we walk through a lot
with our heads
to the ground.
Fearing the fall,
we keep our
eyes down.

But nature-
Nature taught me
to look up
in an instance where I
felt the goosebumps
r u n
all through my body.

Nature taught me
that tripping over - if
it happens - will
always be worth it.

Emptiness filling
the void of living -
a day like any other

hope,
distracting the feeling
of loneliness
lonesomeness
loveless

Loveless

addictive that hope -
don’t fall into it,
that hope  - suffered
twenty years, seven
thousand and three
hundred days of shredded
hopeful hours.

I'm scared of
tasting happiness
because I know
it will not be there
all the time. what is
the point of grasping
onto something I
know I'm constantly
going to lose?

Bukowski wrote
about the condition.
John Green said
"pain
demands to be felt."

I wonder what it takes
for pain to consume us?
Entirely but slowly;
cell by cell, vein
by vein, part
by part.

Lost
in a sea of
the condition.

Permanent,
chronic;
a disease
terribly
felt.

“Nobody lives their
lives thinking ‘I’m
going to die.’” said
the professor.

One second of
complete silence,
stood between me
and the professor’s
next sentence-
I wanted to ask ‘why?’

“It just does not
work that way,”
she said.

What if it does with
some?

Actually, no-
I let you go.

today I read a lot of
poems.

and fell
into a deep, deep hole
of doubt.

and wandered there
for a while.

then it hit me-
I cannot help the urge;
the writer inside me
is dying to break out.

but I denied the undeniable
fact again, and again
and again.

then my right hand rose
up and held the pencil,
and started writing:
“I write, I write, I write,
I write, I write, I write…”

but it was not enough,
the written words came
to life; I started
mumbling,
murmuring,
muttering – listening to myself,
hearing my mouth utter the words
I deny because I am scared, terrified! –
then I screamed the written words.

how silent were they, as silent
as pencil can be. I heard them
being written at first, but
screamed them to believe.

that was almost enough;
I cried.
and so I believed that
I write,
*I write.

If you are a lover of words,
you’d understand the
beautiful curse      that befell us,
those who strive and endeavor
with a passion planted inside us
that flourishes and thrives.
Like Athena and her web,
our webs are made of
hundreds of words, woven with
our pencils like needles,
and so we get better at
sewing our works.

A girl
once loved words
wholeheartedly,
but occasionally tried
to let love go
before sewing poems
became her favorite thing
and nothing more.