The other day my mother told me
I should be a writer.
I did not have the heart to tell her
that I am everything but a writer.
I hear too much in silences.
I think oceans are often lonely,
and trees don't always want to let go.
More than half of my books
are less than halfway finished.
Someone once told me,
"You're too young to be so old",
but I didn't notice,
I was too busy losing things
I never had.
I'm not weak,
I'm just broken.
Most days are overwhelming;
I often think of not existing.
You should try it sometime,
it's peaceful knowing you don't
mean anything to anyone.
It's a shame sadness seeps
through fingertips, otherwise
one day I might write; even though
I am everything but a writer.

I just wanted to be the sunlight
that woke you up in the morning,
the warmth you wouldn’t mind
slipping through the curtains.
But I suppose it’s enough
for me to be
the memory
you hope to forget.

Here I am, looking up causes for headaches
at 1 am
when I know it will always come back to you.
My hands found the bottom of the ocean
as I cleaned old movie tickets out of my car today.
I can see your honesty from here.
It took my composure on its way out the door.
I’m not bitter anymore.
I’m just tired.
And I’m tired of being so tired.
I’m sorry you didn’t stay.
I’m sorry that I apologize
for all the times you didn’t.
I keep forgetting these things
are not one-sided,
and so,
I’m sorry I gave you everything
for nothing in return.
You tasted like love,
and I was parched.
Still am.

Note this:
none found out yet,
but the cat suspects.

Someone left
a love note
in the air.
The wind brought it
to him straight,
clearly the wrong address,
he thought at once.
Then,
he saw two eager eyes, from afar
like a hurried rain, falling all over him.
Compelled, he thought of reading
that fragrant note,
the messenger wind,
insisted him to accept.
Just a deep breath
when she was passing by, told
it was full of spelling mistakes.

you're sister said i seemed
different* and he sighs when
i tell him *not different,
just sad

there is a small silence as he
loads up his truck, and when he is
not looking, i say

*but i guess, for you, that means
different

My days ago
are piled
with excess.

My days ahead,
clouded
with letting
go.

This day today,
empty
as the bottle
laying next
to me.

And there's
no way
to grow
young
again.

(I) feel sad
A lot of the time
And I (have) so many
Doubts about whether
(To) bury my heart
Or (keep) it
With me
I am (trying) to decode
The echoes of myself
And I want to just
Give up.

If you want to be my valentine, you don't have to shower me with fine wine
I would rather just spend time with you
I don't need flowers which too quickly wilt
You don't need to be built like Hugh Jackman to be my man
I don't need to get a box of chocolates, even though I like them
It would be sweet enough to listen to your jokes, and to laugh at them
I know there are more important things than money
You don't need to feel that you need to impress or be best dressed
We are already the best of friends
I just have one question  "Will You Be My Valentine"?