Lately my words have felt
like bullets that only
graze the edge of the target.
A feeling of emptiness saturates
my mouth as I speak.

Lately I feel like
the validity of my presence
is tied to some word count.
Like my existence
is an essay that I must write,
I just cannot find the right words.

there are some,
just a few,
experiences i have had
where i have felt
the touch of love
as the universe cradled me
for just a moment.
a moment
that was all i needed,
in that moment,
to keep faith
in myself and
in this life.

Usually i stand right at the edge.
Where im still considered within the bounds of connection,
But not too far in that i cant easily step right out.
Because to go deeper means that i must walk toward the fog
And out of sight of the edge.
To get vulnerable and to get lost in something that i can’t control.
The edge is comfortable.
It’s a line on which i can see clearly where i stand
Without getting lost in the existence of someone else.

i’ve always been the third wheel,
the pity friend,
the background character.
i’ve always been another body-
just to make the group an even number,
another voice-
just to make the laughter slightly louder,
another wallet-
just to make the split cost a little cheaper.

i am grieving and i am grateful.
i am scared to jump and i am hopeful i will land.
i am comfortable doing life alone with only myself and i dream of spending my life with the one whom i love.
every color exists
in equivocal harmony
within the rainbow
of the heart.

size zero jeans
flesh colored seams
plastic containers labeled Maybelline.
if beauty is what’s seen,
and so will i be,
a prisoner, shackled
to the glamour economy.

it’s the elephant in the room,
it’s the wound that never bleeds,
it’s the joke that always lands
but only after she leaves.
it’s the exposed nerve ending,
it’s the unwarranted broadcast,
it’s my insecurity living
inside a house made of glass.

you say you love me
like those words
are the paperweight
holding us down
amid bitter winds

humor me
with an unknown.
and i will find freedom
in understanding that
a known
must emerge.

i had to choose fear
so that i might remember
how to choose love.

i am in a waiting room.
for weeks i have lived inside these four walls of expectation.
hoping that one day, my name be called.
that one day a stranger might open that door, hook me up to some clunky beeping machine,
and tell me that i am alive.

i am looking for an answer
to a question i do not know.
a thousand different pathways
with no where to go.
a dream i can’t remember,
a feeling i can’t deny.
seeking only the truth
i keep asking why?
wounded and hungry,
my soul cries out
what is the meaning
of this life really about?

i believe heaven is everywhere
above and below
within and without
heaven is not seen
but felt
it is a state of being
wherever you are
your soul touching
every particle of love
within the universe

close your eyes
silence the mind
travel inwards
and here you’ll find
that everything is nothing
and nothing is all
listen carefully
and answer the call
of your soul yearning
to finally break free
from years of conditioning
control and suffering.

we were standing,
discussing the universe,
when all of a sudden i looked down,
on top of my right foot,
two beautiful orange wings
the universe joining our conversation.

leaves dance in the whispers of the wind
the voice of god carries them down to earth
silently floating toward a pavement death
one day they will blossom again
when the hand of creation enters a new season

take my words
for what you see
as they float down
a stream of propensity.
your mind is the potter
my words are the clay
the artwork you create
is not the message i relay.
it is up to you
to make this choice:
what will you hear?
of which voice?

a storm rattling my bones,
and a silence paralyzing my exterior.
stories i keep locked away,
an electric code only i can decipher.
a truth solidified into flesh,
distrust molding my shoulders.
a fear of being misunderstood,
history repeats over and over.

when our paths crossed
at synchrony of calamity,
words penetrating my soul,
your existence a gravity.
a familiar presence,
a similar history,
we’ve been here before,
a past life mystery.
two weeks confined,
one enigmatic book,
our minds were entangled,
my heart was hooked.
my spirit was restored,
my life was reset,
our fated encounter
i will not ever forget.

blue and green wrinkles
upon a blanketed mirror.
sunlight twinkles,
it’s never been clearer.

a reflection distorted,
my fears contorted.
an ocean of love
as seen from above.

you guard yourself
like my emotions
are nocked silver arrows
aimed at a truth deep within you,
one that you cannot bear to witness.

emotionally tethered to my mother
spiritually tethered to the sun
physically tethered to my phone
mentally tethered to reality tv

youd have no shadow
without the light
shining behind you

within every word i speak
you listen out of selfish intention
seeking confirmation that
the person you have conjured me to be
before even truly trying to see me
is really who i am.
you seek the validation of your own bias.

the rift between
knowing someone
and
understanding someone
is only crossed with
the experience of
selfless intention
and
boundless love

i handed a piece of glass
to someone holding a hammer
behind their back

seven billion
conscious hearts
experiencing each other
either
in love or in fear

i started to see the nuances
of all the love inside myself
within each absence
of what i knew i deserved.

tidal nostalgia floods in
staining the sand beneath
each step i take.

you wish
to be invisible.
you envy
the very ghosts that
haunt you.

dead inside
though still alive,
you’re halfway there
i suppose.

please just know,
these walls i have built
are only to contain
some very strong storm within.

for these clouds are contagious,
this rain is relentless,
and these winds are destructive.

please just know,
these walls i have built,
serve a great purpose-
one i hope you never
have to realize.

glossy eyes
locked in a
downward gaze,
counting each
passing crack
i step over.

a raging war
in my mind,
a battleground
upon sidewalks,
just trying
somehow
to take cover.

head sinking into the pillow
memories of the day
begin to bleed out
and soak the mattress beneath.
tired sigh releasing
the rubber band from
its finger gun as i
lay my arms down
beside my body.
armor falling down
as the covers are pulled
hiding my wounded body
under a silk shelter
from the enemies of today.

the beautiful play of life
is that i am all i will ever truly know and understand,
and everything else that i experience
is an expression of a separate experience,
of which i try to understand
only through the ways in which
i understand my own experience.
so that if i can experience myself and understand myself
in as many ways as possible,
i might become ever closer
to understanding every other expression of experience.
ever seeking to merge myself with the universe at large
and expand myself through infinite understanding.

wincing as memories of the past
cant help but flood my mind,
wanting to forget but
from myself i cannot hide.
a caged mind, an empty heart,
a loaded cannon aimed
toward everyone around me
except the one to blame.
ignoring never worked
the past always lived on,
within the present’s lack of presence
and the feelings of all wrong.
i tried to run to places
far far far away
from all trouble that i knew
but it followed me always.
thats not who i am,
i scream at a starry sky,
that was long ago and
so much time has passed by.
i hear a voice within
whispering my name:
she says very softly,
“widen the narrow frame.
for who you used to be
was just only a beginning
and who you are today
is very far from an ending.
for the you of the past
has made the you today,
so instead of hold regret
you can look back and say
‘i learned to change and
i learned to grow
so in every new day,
new seeds i will sow
and ill focus always on
the me of tomorrow.’”

only when she finally laid down everything
that she had been carrying
between her two hands-
this was when she was able to finally see
the tattered skin
of her palms and
the aching tendons
of her fingers.
only when she finally released the sore grip
that she had molded into
part of her identity-
this was when she was able to finally feel
the freedom she held
within her bones and
the power she held
within her hands.

3 am
my bedroom ceiling
i have memorized
every crack
every bubble
every paint stroke
the image of
3 am
my bedroom ceiling
engraved in my mind

and sometimes it comes a point
where i am laying under a night sky,
staring into a blackness mounting
a million different twinkles of hope
upon a canvas above,
waiting for some kind of movement
to happen suddenly among
the million glimmering miracles,
to catch me by surprise
so that i might wish upon it
some other kind of miracle to happen
upon a canvas below.

when the emptiness pervades
when the fog does not clear
when the incessant doubts
pound like drums in my ear
when the heart is chained
when the shackles are too heavy
when the ground underneath
no longer feels steady
when none of me feels real
when all of me feels contrite
when the feelings i can’t bear…
these are the times i write.

i decided to change my hair,
in denial
that was the beginning
of my spiral.

stroking my long hair,
sitting in a leather chair,
pondering why i’m alive,
she asked me ‘why?’
‘it’s just too much’ was my reply.

and when it was over,
and the apron came off,
the girl cutting my hair
told me she felt
that i had a sweet spirit.

maybe
she doesn’t know
who she is
because
all of her childhood
she was handling
the weight
of being someone else
while neglecting
the weight
of becoming herself.

it is painful
when you sit high above
yourself, looking down,
and begin to see
the creases of your personality
unfolding before you.
like entire chapters
of a book in which
the pages had been stuck together;
a once incomplete storyline
coming together.
one crack of the spine
and suddenly
newfound pages
are pulled apart
to reveal once hidden,
yet the most intimate,
details of a story.

sifting through old clothes,
i enter a museum of self.
costumes of my past
hung up on display.
as i touch every fabric,
i’m reminded of each story:
the character,
the cast,
the script,
the stage.
it is the wardrobe of
a washed up actor who was
ever yearning for the applause
of her audience and
the praise of her critics.
all those years she wasted
losing herself in roles,
in the demands of characters,
now collecting dust within a dark closet.