I have this broken hour glass mind that is perfect at wasting time.
But every once in a while, there’s a writing in the sand.
I found this picture today and it reminded me of you, I don’t know why.
Maybe it’s because I assume she has a walk like night sky, with moonlight in her heels and stardust in her footprints.
Maybe it’s because I assume she has a laugh that haunts the hallways of memories.
Maybe she leaves lipstick stains on the hearts of many men.
Or maybe if she were alive today, she would be over a hundred and twenty years old and still look as beautiful.
But I do know this
I know that the fact it’s a portrait, with nothing to distract me from her face, reminds me that women are more than what they can offer from the neck down.
The marks on her cheek remind me of goodbye kisses, the ones you never forget because they’re from people you’ll always remember.
How every strand of hair on her head seems to have a voice, maybe that’s what gives the picture its thousand words.
She isn’t smiling or frowning, she doesn’t seem happy or sad. Just plain, like it was meant to mirror peculiarity before prejudice, like the picture was taken right before the world made all its assumptions about her.
I know that the picture is black and white, not because it’s old, but because the moment lacks the complexity that comes with colour, it is just simple and uncertain.
This is how I see us my darling, uncertain of what the future holds. Maybe it is full of promise or maybe I’m just a broken hour glass, spilling sand, wasting time.

I heard icebergs only show a tenth on the surface, and that, is one hell of a surface, makes titanic hearts like mine sink too easily.

I’m sure if i searched your eyes I’d find my daydreams, I’m sure between your lips will be a good place to hide my nightmares and kissing you will be the safest thing I have ever done.

Between your leopard print skin and zebra stripped life, lies everything perfect about imperfections.

I understand that a womans thoughts are hard to read, I heard once that they are written in braille. If love is truly blind, then reading your mind should come easy.

If you would let me, I want to be the answer to the questions you were too afraid to ask. I want my heartbeat to be your favourite bedtime story and you would fall asleep on my chest every night.

And if you won’t, then at least let me be a home to your gorgeous, an ocean to your iceberg, I’ve lived long enough to learn that there’s enough space in a friendzone for two.

Maybe it's my fault.

Maybe when God asked me, I should have said boy.

Maybe I should have said white.

I wonder if that would have made a difference.

Our bellies are beginning to forget what laughter feels like but our eyes would always remember your faces.

You the reasons we chose girl.

You the reasons we chose black.

Are you coming to get us?

Or are you waiting for them to bring us back?

I have this bag, full of the all the things I would do if I ever return home, and forgiving you is one of them.

Dear ripped jeans,

Do you believe in love at first kiss? I do
And I think I feel it for you.
The moment our lips touch and don't wanna let go
That feeling like wet tongue on ice
The silence feels like an empty parking lot
My heart racing the moment I feel your curves.
I hope my heart could drift and prevent smashing
I let the heart smash and break down, to avoid a break up
Then my thoughts for you exploded BOOM! And you literally blew my mind
Then I knew you were one of a kind.
I never knew how to stop
The only brake I ever knew was a break up
All I ever think about is that you're beautiful
Cos I love you, I hope you love me too.

Yours truly,
The boy with the black cap.

I used to think you knew your soul mate if their chin fit perfectly into the nook in your neck. My first girlfriend was pretty awesome at giving hugs.

But I knew the kind of woman I wanted to marry the day I watched my mother hum her favourite song while doing the dishes.

I knew the kind of man I wanted to be, the day I watched my father slow dance with my mother to her humming.

Would my son ever watch me slow dance with his mother?

Or would I always be writing poems about leopard print skins and french fries hair.

I carry all these things on top of my heart and I fear if it gets broken they’ll all fall through the cracks.

Maybe I have a flawed perception of romance, maybe slow dancing, humming, dishwashers don’t exist. Maybe gorgeous earthquakes aren’t always heart breaking but ground breaking.

I feel like each second is a grain of sand and the waves are washing away my sand castles one after the other. People always tell me I make the truth the hardest to understand, so I guess what I’m trying to say is I feel like time is running out. And with all the so called fish in the sea, these waves never seem to leave any on my shores.

Maybe I’m too blinded, concentrating on fish when there’re great blue whales around, tiger sharks and even electric eels that we’ll always have a spark.

I’ve been living too fast, but there’s no point finishing first if there’s no one waiting at the finish line, I’d rather slow dance to her humming and maybe in essence we would be the ones that won.

I knew the kind of man I wanted to be, the day I watched my father slow dance with my mother to no music in the living room. I know she eagerly anticipates the day her and I slow dance to my wedding song. I hope this is not another failed attempt of me trying to get closer to that day.

The first was in the corner of the smile of a fourteen year old girl when I asked her to be my valentine. Apparently you’re meant to ask before the day. I still think about her. Hers forms the basement in my jar of stolen heart pieces.

The second time, it was holding my hand when reality met nightmares. It carried words like “alright” and “fine” as arm candy. And even though I wasn’t alright or fine, a maybe was enough for me.

The third time was when I asked my grandfather if I would see him again. I half expected a “not” after it. He taught me that making choices is easy, but living with them is hard. Although his lessons were more things not to do, than things to do, he’s still one of the best teachers I know.

The fourth time, I met a girl with surrender in her lips but escape in her eyes, she seemed to laugh a lot. I always knew if I pulled back the curtain of her laughter I’d see broken heart fragments realising tears isn’t the best of glues. She left like the ocean leaves the shore, slowly stealing grains of sand, knowing she’ll either come back to return it, or she’ll always have something to remember me by. A maybe for the former was all I had left to hold on to.

The fifth time, I carried it in my hello when I talked to sis, although distance separated us I could feel her tears drop on the shoulder of my voice. I tried to act like I knew what I was saying, but a maybe seemed to end every advice I gave.

The sixth time, the man in the mirror asked if I had feathers for fingers. How I made words seem so fly. They would lift off pages and tickle ear drums till a smile was the only response the body knew to produce.

The last time, I heard it somewhere in her blush, somewhere in her smile, somewhere in her laugh. And I thought, maybe she’s the one. I can’t promise I’ll always feel like this, but a piece of me will always only show goosebumps for just you.

1) Somewhere not so deep, serendipity carries serenity.

2) Eyes are just more beautiful fingers, so try to leave goose bumps where others leave bruises.

3) My hobbies are poetry, basketball and convincing people of things I don’t believe.

4) Art is something that cannot be expressed in any other way.

5) Fear God.

6) Sometimes, the answer might be right but the question might be wrong.

7) If you could steal the moon from the night sky, the stars would get more attention.

8) If tears glowed in the dark, pillows would make wonderful night lamps.

9) People may be shades of grey but still have one black shadow.

10) Beauty is not so relevant when drawing with white chalk on concrete.

She worked in the market
She sold flowers and jewellery
but, nobody there knew her name

With fifty young vendors
Of flowers and jewellery
Each teenaged young girl looked the same

No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue  eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue  eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name

She was hitch hiking home
From the market one night
A car pulled on up for a ride

He told her he'd take her
If she needed a lift
It was cold,  so the girl  got inside

No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue  eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue  eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name


No one has seen her
She's been gone for three days
She never arrived at her home

Nobody saw him
All cars look the same
And besides he was travelling alone

No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue  eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue  eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name


The market still bustles
With sellers of flowers
Where everyone looks, shops or buys

But, something is missing
A young girl is gone
The girl with the smiling blue eyes

No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
The child like lilt to her voice
No one remembered the smiling blue  eyes
Or the way that she blushed for the boys
No one remembered the smiling blue eyes
They all could be one and the same
No one remembered the smiling blue  eyes
or her hair, or her smile or her name

I met a girl once, she had french fries for hair and she was pretty legendary. I’ve been trying to explain her in words for a few days now.

But I don’t know how to write that kind of poem, that explains that it’s the smallest things about her I find the most amazing.

Like when she laughs, and her whole body becomes a wind chime, both in sound and sway

Like her walk, how it seems like her ankles are two old sagacious birds that  know some secrets about the ground that no one else does, so it seems like she’s almost flying.

How she has basquiat fingers for hips, and every time she moves it’s pure art.

How do I explain that every time she speaks, her lips become two ex-lovers that still have a thing for each other, constantly touching and stopping.

If I could, I would capture her smile in the ink of a pen. I would write sonnets and ballads about the arch in her back. I would write nursery rhymes about each line in her palm, let me read your future. Are you kissing me in it?

I guess sometimes words fail even the best of poets.

Sometimes,dreams don’t do reality justice.

For those that will never hear the wind chimes in her laugh, that will never see the feathers on her ankles.

The best I can say is that she’s pretty legendary.

When the sun starts snoozing its alarm too often, when autumn leaves are corpses under white caskets and the memories of her are nothing but distant car horns. I’d always remember french fries.

what happened to you?

your mind used to be a cemetery for boredom right next a maternity ward of inappropriate laughter.

you spoke like an owl was perched on your ribs, your wisdom was profound.

but what happened to you?

I named your lips nectar and honey and mine were two butterfly junkies trying to get a sugar high.

I could have sworn I heard  your name in the winds whisper through the leaves lips, but autumn came far too soon.

and when it seems like things want to get sweet again, time becomes a rehab for relapsing diabetics.

you were a beauty among beasts, a rainbow on an oil spill.

But even rainbows can't be out when the sun is not.