If
          You are always sorry
When
          You think back

And
          You only worry
When
          You think ahead

Then
          You will only find
Your
          Peace of mind

After
          You are dead
WIZDUMBs BY JA 414

Who will believe my verse in time to come
If it were filled with your most high deserts?
Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts:
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say, “This poet lies,
Such heavenly touches ne’er touched earthly faces.”
So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
Be scorned like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termed a poet’s rage,
And stretchèd metre of an antique song.
    But were some child of yours alive that time,
    You should live twice, in it and in my rhyme.

Today I realized,
how important it was
to value the little things
those little small tiny moments.
I'm not talking about moments with  friends or family,
or your significant others,
i'm talking about the little unnoticeable moments
that we all made
to..ourselves

from the moment the sun wakes us up,
to the way the sun shines it rays on our face,
and to the way we groan about how annoyed we are but than we thank the sun anyways
to the way we look at ourselves in the mirror just to give a peek on our morning face,
(we've always known how terrible we look but still we give it another chance, who knows, we might get lucky and look super incredible that morning)
and to the way we walk to the bathroom with our bathing towel on our left or right shoulder,
to the way our hip sway, from left to right,
when in the toilet, we took another peek of our morning face again , just to feed the hunger of our curiosity,
to the way we choose what to wear on that day.
everything single little things we do is beautiful
and what more do we need ?

I wish that I
was filled with stars
intricate, intimate arrays
to guide me to the edge
of myself and beyond

my soul
the brightest
in a unique constellation
of my naming

my love
many-hued nebula
expanding
to fill the void

my losses
supernovas
both beautiful
and tragic

But I am not
celestial
earth-bound
I must navigate

by stroke of skin
whiff of memory
trace of sadness
night vision

rudimentary compasses
in a sea of misunderstanding.

my mother worries
that there will be no one
by her bed
when she dies

she doesn't remember
that when i was a toddler
she put herself to bed
and made me her parent

she forgets that she used
those little hands to rub
her back--her head
until she felt better

these grown up hands
still wince
at the thought of touching
her skin

somehow i will have
to find a way to fulfill my
adult responsibilities
perhaps she still has

a day or two til then