I am.

I am an ordinary person who gets older as a year pass by.
I am just like others who breath the polluted air.
I am that human being who asks questions over and over again even if I know the answers won't change at all.
I love to dance and sing and listen to music at any mood. I am just that.
I keep on talking to people who I know would forget me as we part ways.
I don't mind others but just accept the fact that we are all different.
I am interested in writing and would often be interested with others' works too.
I am quiet when I'm mad. I would make a tantrum alone. I would smile at my hardest times. I would keep my chin up
even if I know I'm already wrong. I do things that are complicated and fail a lot of times but I would still continue
and I would fail, fail, fail again and expect to never reach that success.
I look down on people but I look down on myself more.
I am a leader but I don't listen to my own words.
I want change but I'm too lazy to follow.
I study and I hate it but I still do.
I learn and make sacrifices that would lift up my souls.
I do things I don't even like but find out later that I loved them.
I get hurt and I cry. I fall a lot. I fall to fail, I fall to love.
Love, love, and hurt. What's the difference?
I wish on shooting stars, believe in promises and make myself stupid.
I am used to loving someone then fall out of love.
I sit and stand up. I walk and come back.
Why do we do things that just always leads to the same direction?
I am once a kid, I grew and made sense.
I am just an ordinary person who doesn't even know why I even wrote these things.
I am just a person.
A person trying to find out who I really am.

Death stands above me, whispering low
I know not what into my ear:
Of his strange language all I know
Is, there is not a word of fear.

I want to rest.

I want to be Earth-
my skin, loose soil,
yellow button dandelions
pushing through
the dirt in my chest,
as puddles fill my outstretched hands
while my hair twists into the roots of trees;
and the wind picks up
to scatters pieces of me
side by side
the dandelion seeds.

All
That I can
do is smile as
I look at you, and
this pen runs out of ink.
You make me feel so warm inside,
so wholesome - so worthwhile - so
meaningful. Love is such a wonderful
experience. I close my eyes + I don't
see anything, but I feel everything. Moments
like these, I never want them to end.
I can't think of a good metaphor
to describe how my heart feels, but I'll
try my best to explain: it feels round,
heavy -  full with caring, the desire to share.
It wants so badly to
touch yours. I
feel so incredibly
wonderful.
Thank you.

It was on a crisp autumn night that I
sat alone beside you
for the first time in nearly four years.

The shadows of the looming pines surrounding me
seemed to press and pressure my eyes to slip
down six feet under along with

the bleeding sun as it continued to
decamp from the sky.  It slid so smoothly
past the towering pines while the
silvery fist of the moon
shoved it roughly back to the west;
I thought about how you mustn’t like the night
because of the chill that often comes
hand in hand with the darkness.  

For a moment, I considered
the slight possibility of my body heat
leaching down through the earth
and into your bones.

I wondered how cold it is to
sleep underground and then I
wondered if angels felt the
creeping chill of the
foreshadowing frost in the first place.

I thought that everything significant
must happen on Thursdays because
your book began and ended on
                  the fifth day—
born on the same day of the week
you and I compare and contrast
like long
                  lost
                             twins.

Sometimes I half-expect to see
your ghost staring back at me
when I look in the mirror and to be
completely honest, I’m not sure
what I’m more afraid of—
the possibility that you might not be the same
or the chance that you might be so
disappointed in what you see in me
now that we are separated.

The divide between us runs deep
into the earth and creates a whole
new fault line, rent and ruptured
beyond all forms of repair.

The breath I breathe is the
bridge between us;
the bed you sleep in is the
total distance.

I wrote a lot of poems
about a lot of people
and many of those poems
mentioned love.

but I like to think that you're
the one who'll read them when
you're eighty, sitting beside
me in your chair.

I like to imagine your hair
as it turns grey,
your frown lines and wrinkles
of your smiles and your worries
and the sound of your laugh
that has not changed with the years,
and the way you'd wipe away my tears
of both pain and joy.

I like to think of rings and kisses
and your hands on mine,
of you asleep next to me on
winter nights, of newspapers
and car rides and Christmasses
and all those things that make
a life together.


I wrote a lot of poems
about a lot of people
and many of those poems
mentioned love,


but I like to think my best ones
are about you.

Me and Dee,
2007.
An afternoon
Scrabble session.

Friendly game
Turning sour,
Silence,
Filling up the hours.

I slyly grin and
Slowly lean.
******* Dee!
“Byzantine”.

He narrows his eyes,
Calm and small,
Then throws the Scrabble board
At the wall.