she reminds people of hugs and
mermaid hair and sunshine-filled
smiles of stained lips dipped fiery
red and she's a walking proof that
being kind doesn't need to be acted
through frivolous bravado nor
does it have to be broadcast for
everyone to see for she has long
set that example for all of us
to be inspired by

she's simple in extraordinary ways,
she's lovely in heightened measurements, she's as cute as a button.

stay golden, micka.

you don't know me, that's as clear as the
day, just like i'm not exactly sure who
you are just yet. i don't hold a time box
of the past i never want to relive, of a
present still muddled w uncertainties
and countless levels of anxieties and of
a future i'm not even sure you are a
part of. i may be deluding myself with
ideas of you, because everyone around
me told me you're the one i need in
order to be complete and i honestly can't
deny that i like what i'm hearing. i'm
still clueless how this works--do i simply
get one look straight from your eyes and
all my doubts will start to vanish, do i
reach for your hand because i suddenly
felt like that's all i'll ever need, do i give
in to the hazy infatuation and plunge
right in, do i say hello or would i lose my
tongue? i'm not sure, nor will i ever be.

but maybe if it's you,
maybe it's because of you,
i'm prepared to meet halfway.

he looked so brilliantly bright
up on the pedestal I've decorated
with fake flowers and cut-out hearts

i know he could make all the
pain of rejection go away, i know he
could see past my flaws, i know he
can make me happy simply by giving
me a chance to adore him, or can he
really? he was perfect, something i
wasn't used handling, i was used
with the broken and the shattered
and not of something so clean and so
polished

would it really do me good to stay
with a person on such high standards i know i deserve

or is it okay to still stay with you?

I know we haven't talked in months, and i know you
think we are better off without each other, but i just
want you to know that i'm doing my best not to long
for your voice and your eyes, i'm trying hard not to miss
the sound of your voice and the curve of your smile, i
made sure to refrain myself from looking at our pictures
that are in the trash bin of my computer i haven't
permanently deleted yet, i keep on telling myself what
you have told me.

that we are better off with people who won't stumble and
crash at the first sign of uncertainty or push the other person
to leave because you know for yourself that you can't and
you really wouldn't. but instead i'm lying on cold white tiles
right now trying to imagine what it's like to be with you still.
I haven't been doing better.

my life isn't tragic,
my mind is.

I stayed in one place, as if my feet grew roots and bounded themselves
under the soil while my face withered from the drought and my arms left people with bruises because I pricked them with thorns, but I still didn't leave, I still couldn't leave. I wanted to be here when you came back so I was fine there, I did not mind the blaring sun and the pitying eyes--and when you did show your face, you got mad at me for placing myself at risk, you went grave when you realized the agony you think I've been through, and so you asked me repeatedly, again and again and again why I bothered with him when he had told me countless of times I have the liberty to do what I wanted, and so I simply answered three words.

You learned how I have a taken a liking to poems
and writing and anything that drips with art and so you
asked me to write you one.
I knew you didn’t like those poems that I’ve showed
you nor did you understand my passion for writing and
my love for fiction

So I asked you why

You waved it off and told me to just do it; as if words
were easy to tame, as if my mind flows as quickly as
the ink of my pen, as if it just happens in the moment
I wanted them to

I told you that it takes time and you can’t force words
out and ***** them all over the page and you got mad
and swore I’m taking this all too seriously

Maybe I did,
maybe you just didn't understand

You were convinced that you were some masterpiece,
and you wanted me to write about you--not because you
love me or you appreciated my works and my words and
my fingers, but you love yourself too much
But you can’t write
So u forced me.

Well, here it is, *******.