recently
I got a little older,
learned a lesson or two,
like how loving someone
could never be as poetic
as I wanted it to.
like how nothing
would ever be as poetic
as I wanted it to.
how can I accept
that the miracle of love
isn’t really a miracle at all?
how can I wrap myself
in someone’s arms
when I know
that there isn’t any sort
of poetic loving involved?
how do I unlearn
the romantic thoughts
that taught me
about the fireworks,
the butterflies,
and the fluttering fingers
in the dark.
and accept that
maybe kissing
won’t be as spiritual as I thought.
maybe it’s really just a mouth on mine.
how do I unlearn my innocent heart
who lulled me into a false sense of hope
for a lover who would call
the way my body moves
art.
a lover who would feel
the poetry
in every word
I spoke in the dark.

The rain drapes the windshield in sheets
and the radio doesn't reach any stations

cold integrity darkens the interior
of Alex's rusty crimson Camaro

it's never this quiet on the highway
sliding between light and lightning

laid bare by a flash across the sky
naked at the sound of thunder

what use is running away
if all you can do is drive.

isn't it amazing
how one day you are just going to get up
and never look back

never looking back,
hand in hand with someone who is never
going to leave,
without so much as a trace
of the misunderstandings and hardships of your past

is that too much to believe?
am i being unrealistic?
am i no longer an optimist,
but a dreamer
stuck in fantasies that may never happen

i have to go on
believing that, though
otherwise,
i'm not sure how i'll continue life

i know
after hours sitting at the table
discussing the soul and the afterlife and
/our true destiny/ with my drunk aunties

that there has to be something
i know of my own self-worth
but there is more

i know now
how to live for myself
and now
i can love someone else

but

how's that going for me?

i'm not entirely sure
when i'm going to get up
i'm not entirely sure
when i'm going to take someone's hand
and walk,
carefree to whatever it is that is waiting for us

i'm not sure,
but a girl can dream, right?
isn't that the one thing i cAn do?

i sure hope so.

a hook of a moon
hanging low
burying itself into the dark soil of night ploughing methodically
churning the folds of time unsympathetically
despondent
weary
oblivious to the passing seeds
of thought
laboured over.
Should I expect more
from the ruts it rolls,
perhaps growth of understanding
or a crop of acknowledgment
for my wonderment of it?
Or is it simply a tool
to capture imaginations
of a fool who secretly belives
I have an intimate bond
with its silent magnificence,
perhaps wishing it looks at me
like a brother who shares this moment.

My death will be liberating.

And I do not say that in the sense
that I am going to find a cliff
and take a good jump off.

No.

I am just trying to find a
clever way to tell you

that I do not know what is going
to happen next.

You see,

there is a
fine line
between
dreaming and
mortality

and

I am finding out for myself
that being in love
does not always
involve

being awake.

And for my sake
I fall in love with daydreams,
nightmares,
hazy realities
and

the hung-over idea

of not being enough.

It is all out of my hands.
                 It is all out of time.

And the only thing I have left to do,
now,


is decide.