maybe you love her
even when you say you don’t
and maybe you miss her
in every way when you’re alone
but tell me why
when you hold me close,
for a second, i believe
you love me the most.

believe me when i say
that these scars
are not a reminder of you
believe me, these scars
are a reminder
of how deep my love can be

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

let loose, darling, they told me
so they sent me an angel
with blue flowers in his hair and
just a drop of devilish mischief

in the light of day we'd be
over the hills
where spring flourishes and dances
and flowers are akin to watercolour
splatters upon a green canvas;
or at the stream
watching the water run almost nervously
while fish slip through the waters
like the wind through my hair

in the dead of night we'd be
on the roof
discussing the constellations in the sky
how the stars intertwine --
and are they all friends with the moon?
he'd ask and I'll laugh at the question
because i didn't have the answer to it;
or in the attic by ourselves
where we shouldn't be, with our
lips interlocked, his hands on my jaw
and mine at the back of his head
pulling each other close at an ungodly hour
pretending nothing would go wrong
if they caught us in this unholy act

then the time came
when they said they'd take him
away from the hills, the stream,
the stars and from me -
and I wondered how I would do
without him, for would I be lonely
with the blue sunshine he'd leave behind
or would I be anything but that?

he was my sun in the day
and my moon in the night
and so i had an answer to his question:
he loved the stars dearly
and I knew the stars
would love him
so the moon would be friends
with the stars and all of the stars
would gladly be friends with the moon

the boy laughed at my answer
he kissed me on the cheek
and told me he'd be back
for the hills, the stream,
the stars, and for me

and so I had my blue sunshine to myself
for a long time after that
but I well knew that it wouldn't last
for as long as the moon
was still friends with the stars

The world can't see her, she hides behind me
I take the lead but she is always around me.


The world can't see her, the science can't detect
Every second her in me, more-n-more reflect. 


The world still can't see her, religion calls her names
She engulfs; leaving me to wail as she slowly maims. 


The world can't see her, my family too
She still hangs by my neck, my sadness-her stew.


The world can't see her, nor can I
She lives through me while I barely stay alive 


The world can't see her, only she can see
She has my life, my smiles, my fears and my tears.
They have pledged their allegiance to her
While I remain to be the shell, for the world to see.