as i look through my window
i cannot find his light
he’s nowhere to be seen
i’m all alone tonight

his presence calmed me
silent and serene
his warm yellow shine  
a sight unseen

oh please come back soon
i miss you so much
i’m off to bed now
please stay in touch

Though the loneliness sets in, among the crowds,
Here, within themselves, they find their solace;
Euphoric events have now lost their appeal;

Mindfulness is the key to rest, they recite;
Exaggerated were their extravagant emotions on the dance floor,
Losing themselves in self discovery;
Over-sensationalized was the persona,
Diving into the depth of purple elixirs;
Rave, rave, rave,
As the sun replaces the strobelights,
Melancholy rises with her rays,
And suddenly, life seems meaningless;
The melodrama,
It strikes;
Cleaning up the champagne glasses, after the catastrophe

Cashmere of the Earth,
You carpet the ground;
Invasive in nature,
Creeping where you shan't be,
Uninvited;

Cashmere of the Earth,
What secrets do you keep from me?
For your fickle roots of deception cling onto the fruitful bark,
Only to be blown away when the clouds rage;
And the truths of your Eden call my name;

O, Cashmere of the Earth,
Lush is the lust of your soft touch;
For you are a blooming forest,
In which the fibres of your being blossom amidst the lures of this world;
Your growing greens grasp the barren ground,
The ground that cannot nurture you any longer;

Cashmere of the Earth,
You cushion the rocks with tenderness;
But you must clutch onto them harder!
Else the waves will erase the memory of your velvet embrace,
Leaving only the desolate stone;

Cashmere of the Earth,
Where are you to creep now?
The Tree will not sustain you any more,
For you are nothing but a mere illusion;
An ornate facade, soon to fade away

we walk through the garden
the one beside the house with the yellow door
watching the geese lay in their pond
then we look up at the night sky
gazing the wonders that are the stars
and you start singing
la vie en rose

the water ripples
you start skipping stones
the long grass brushed against our ankles
as if it were a cat, rubbing its head on us

the grass left a mark on my shoes
but it’s all right
because you left a mark on my heart.

after this day he starts to disappear again
where minute by minute
day by day
he goes
back into his spot in the sky
where he lets me bask in his warmth

but he's greedy
not letting me fully encapsulate
the joy and delight he provides
by taking away a minute of his light
each day

hopefully he doesn't hide behind the clouds
on june 23
otherwise this poem is a waste
if one were to even call this a poem

oceanic feeling echoing throughout my house
while tripping over my plaid pajama pants
and the soles of my feet rejuvenated by the hot concrete

Eyelids like Terracotta tiles, painted with Salted Wood,
In this Bohemian Magnificence—an appearance of Golden Chrome;
A Contradiction sits in Unconventionality, a Promise of Lovers
In Winter Graves and Spring Cemeteries.

Let the Late Summer Rains flourish the Commas like Grasseeds;
Reap, Sow, and Weep;
Reaped, Sowed, then Wept.

To Whom do you Owe these Trumpet Glares and Immaculate Phrasing?
(Where are the Trumpet Mutes and Wine Glasses?)
Life in the Divine is Life in Vienna—
Life à Douleur resembles Mourning in June.
Show me the Way to go Home—Public, Corporeal Adorations in the Backseat,
Turn left on Palmerston, past Sicilian Cigars and Creole Shrimp;
Towards the Striped Pillowcases and Vaulted Ceilings!
Adorned with our Reflections, of Dried Lavender and Baby’s Breath,
The open Windows let in the Damp Fragrance of Purple Elixirs.

Your Lips, Your Lips Beacon to Tell of my Oriented Past—
And when Midnight comes ‘round, Your Eyes Project my Adolescent Self.
Where did you Find Him?

(You Clutched my Rosary of Constellations in your Left Hand.)

April in Dublin signifies not only a time and place, yet a feeling. A feeling of the brisk morning air, woven into the intricacy of light, sparse rainfall; enough to coat the blooming leaves on Ailesbury Road in droplets of dew. Tiny puddles form in between the cracks of the ancient cobblestone road, drowning the lush moss – basil in colour – that once grew in its place. As dawn makes her presence, the radiant sunlight peeks through the branches of the Sycamore trees, originally sheltering the lane from the indecisiveness of Irish weather. The earthy scent of petrichor emanates from St. Stephen’s Green, while the putrid scent of damp cigarette stubs race to reach the nostrils first. Petals of blush cherry blossoms gracefully fall to the asphalt path, with some caressing tender skin with its velvet touch. In the afternoon, St. Patrick’s Cathedral echoes in Church Latin, whilst the cars pass – with their bellowing engines – on The Coombe, pacifying the hum of pedestrian chatter that cohabitate simultaneously. As cloudy skies fade to a blue dusk, the lights jig the River Liffey; its yellow reflection moving with the waves. Crowds drunkenly skip along the quay, singing old Celtic hymns off key, while also digesting the sweet, caramelized, mild bitterness of Guinness – the finest of Irish stout beer. At the end of the day, the night retires to her slumber, anticipating newer ordinary, yet sensational experiences that May will bring along.

i creased the cover of my book today,
my heart shattered at the sight.

on a chilly spring evening,
the ethereal voices sang.
above st. paul's,
the moon overhangs.

the tube passes by,
"mind the gap," he said.
eight-am rush,
the iconic blue and red.

it's quiet and serene,
the moss-covered graves.
yet by the chapel,
the union jack waves.

london brings me joy,
like no other city.
the next time i visit,
i wish it isn’t nippy!

the window open
the crickets chirp
my city is asleep
but here i am enjoying my own company
alone with my thoughts
listening attentively to silence

don’t
         take
                 it    
                    away
                             from
                                     me
                                          from                ­                          
                                      ­            us
                                                     don’t                                                
                                                              ta­ke
                                                                ­    the                                                  
       ­                              love
that                                              
       we
            both                                
                   desire
                              and
                        ­             cherish.
the
                                      love
                     ­                          that
                                                      we
       ­           l
                      o
                         n
                            g  
f
o
  r

A resonant gratitude streams through my veins,
Consecrated to my middle school heroines, deflecting
The whispers of shame.
But they taught me that I do not have the luxury of shame;
I have a voice, and I must amplify it––that’s what my mother said.

Elles m’ont protégée, blossoming my oneness.
I am here now because of them, I harness their divine feminine
Strength.

Standing on the bones of my aunties, their anguish travels up,
Their histories following suit.
Beneath my feet, to my knuckles; charging my inner being
My spine is rigid, fortified with the duty––
To liberate, to reform, and to love.
“But my love,” she tells me earnestly, “this love, has been assumed,
Taken for granted, blended into the background of the White man’s portrait.”

My dun skin lives in the ambiguity of praise and prejudice,
And my sisters are dead. Exploited, first––then dead.
As were my mother’s grandmothers, when the Britons drew the line.
The assembly line, however, was an American invention––
Where the American Dream came to fruition. Commodified neatly,
‘Cheaply’ produced, and easy to swallow: fine [Black*] American craftmanship!

Her tomb
Stone, will be mined by her brothers.
He is unearthing the buried history, but forced to push coal into the fire,
Cremating the legacies of his own kin.

“So what are you going to say at my funeral now that you’ve killed me?”
Her lasts words, found amongst the ashes.

the record spins
playing its gentle crackle
reflecting the light of the warm afternoon sun
oh how it glistens.
it soothes me.

Green fingers roll down the hills
Embalmed with moss beneath the fingernails
Scratch marks on the clay path—where his brother lays to rest
Opal blues and hailstones, the colour of his tie, sitting
Loosely around his tanned neck and unshaven collar

Caro mio ben, Credimi almen.

He sips his cup with an assertion of an immortal wedding
Where cane sugar and hydrangeas line his bathtub
With his brown feet upon quartz tiles, he washes the salt that lines
His spine, his perspired forearms are bronzed and leathery
He sobs the Roman chant under the fountain

Nel nome del Padre, e del Figlio, e dello Spirito Santo. Amen.

dear person twenty thousand feet below me,
i’m sorry i couldn’t be your shooting star tonight.
i’m sorry i couldn’t fulfill your wish to
leave;
your wish to wander.
but i’m hoping that you know,
i’m listening.
and i could feel your presence;
i could feel your urge
to be on the same flight as me
so that at least you could be somewhere
other than the four walls that entrap you.

it seems like we’re the only ones awake right now
while your bedroom lamp glimmers twenty thousand feet below me
and while i look out of the plane’s window, looking at your lamp glimmering twenty thousand feet above you.

but don’t worry,
i’ll be here, listening.

we can sit on the bonnet of the car
wearing our muddy converse
blasting indie rock through the radio
on a pleasant summer evening
watching the willow tree hanging upon the streams of water
while you dig for the last french fry from the paper bag
and while i gaze at your sheer beauty

but for now it's a figment of my imagination
hoping maybe
you dream of this
too

one sip turns into two drinks
two drinks too many
words start spilling out of your mouth
words of hatred
words of insecurity
words of humiliation
words of mockery
if only that drink had spilled instead.

i'll love you till you call the cops on me.
-lorde, writer in the dark

note to self
don't ever let someone 'fix' my poems
for i'm afraid they'll take away the emotion
from my handpicked words
words that reflect who i am
it may seem like i'm not open to criticism
but they don't feel the same way i do