the scent of her sweat
cigarette ash on my skin
she says, "don't forget."
as she whispers to my ear
the story of how we met

their timelines brag "lives"
but a grin I learn to keep
in patterns I don't forget
today is a lot better
than when I tried my own end

a wan moonlight wades
the pond of the cold tiled floor
beaming existence
I could look up yet choose a
reflection of its presence

A series
of short puffs
from a rekindled
cigarette expertly put out
on the half
reminds you of your
fastidiousness
now you feel like **** as you look
at the wreckage site
of a desk that
is your own doing
       That is what you do.

While your ego
floats like the unmelted
coffee you put in cold water
Hardly dissolvable
to anything normal
missing anything temporal
You lash out once more
waging a war
with a nation
of thoughts
You kick the furniture
to send the dust flying
       That is what you do.

You attempt to sheathe
an intricate wound
patterned on your
knuckle, as detailed as the
dystopia of your
own human agenda that
can be trivialized by just
"I haven't been myself lately"
when somebody asks
because you're afraid
they might see
you find it
                hard
          to
  belong
Slowly, the dust resorts to settle
on the bedroom floor
       And so do you.

they don't know, nor care
they laugh over her battle
of despair and rage
of how she crawled to get to
that desk they see as her cage

is to raise a wall
back to its preexistence
to halt a
read-between-the-lines
brand of resonance;
a wall to protect
those constructed surfaces
from even being scratched.
Now, you feel
              an
                  empty sting

when your access to a
digital counterpart,
a modern-day version
of a person's cognition,
is denied.
It's as if their posts are
the only way left
where you could
actually
hear the things
that couldn't be spoken of;
where you could
feel the
immeasurable heartbeats
that could never be
projected;
  and all of these
      illusions
          make you wish
              you talked more
                  in real life.

your dark ocean eyes
surpass the depths I have known
will your tides be here?
if I ever scared your waves,
will you want to conquer fear?

one must say, "I'm set"
for the noblest human role
of bearing a child
it is not just a fruit of
those nights we lack conviction

I drew the second third line
A first fourth one is on deck
Knew I inked them finely fine
Still, I go check and recheck

Marvelously filleted corners
Cleave an unsettling sound
Put compass back on paper
Just to make sure it's round

Anxiety was bound to happen
To the fifth first line I go back
Again, I sharpen and sharpen
But I give up, made it all black

Perfection is not my liberty
But a numb skin I wish to flay
Half of my mind seeks symmetry
Yet the other  half  
                                 is    in
                                          disarray

I looked at the bay
it glared back streaks of sunrise
a soul at my shore
the fleeting burn tells my own
I have known those eyes before

a sudden loud honk
of a car shook my senses
as I crossed the street
that's how it felt waking up
to the fact that something's gone

drawn against the flame
she lends me her broken limbs
an earthly musk breaks
the stars brought before my eyes
a fleeting insanity

there's a thin white line
between "glad because of it"
and "sad without it"

she had always kept
her own idea of him
like a bad tattoo
making sense of those blurred lines
rationalizing regrets

I hope you care
enough to share
the point of conversations.

Relax, start with a smile,
make it worth your while,
spread some good vibrations.

I wish you try to know
back what they ask you to show,
exchanging information.

Never forget the value
of asking back "And you?"
when answering all questions.

Look in the eye
for those windows never lie
about their deepest emotions.

Be kind, be real,
trust and let them feel
that love defies limitations.

gasping through my ear
warm bare hands slither beneath
sneaking through tight skin
i steer waves you shut those eyes
leave the realm where lust is sin

song jives with the sight
dying sun burning the edges
golden leaf eclipse
i sniff my fingertips the
stink of rusty guitar strings

the dank soil tightened
scent of relief after rain
sunset burned like sighs
in time the gray sky turns blue
so do the streaks in their eyes

white silver bullets
barrage the trees and buildings
in chaotic sound
despite our defense constructs
everything falls to the ground

enlightenment in
perceiving one's existence
comes with suffering
of knowing one's nothingness—
reason to stop existing

"Come, sit down." the healer says
as her patient gazes emptily.
Clinic was dim, table's a mess
"Here's a cup of tea."

The healer dusts her hands on her coat
stained from making medicine.
"What are you here for today?"
"Same as last time, but I have caved in."

"I know just what you need,"
the healer unsheathes a frame.
The patient woefully sighs and
sobs without a bit of shame.

"I can't look again, it reminds me of her!"
to a portrait of a mother and daughter.
"Don't worry," says the healer,
"Tomorrow, it will get better."

The clinic was her art studio;
the medicine were the paintings.
The healer was an artist—
an empath in broken things.

"Through art, dismantle your heart
embrace the facts of your pain.
The wounds of the past shall heal
and your love for life shall remain."

"Dad, fix the window!"
kids gathered to watch his craft:
woodwork cracked nail bent
he never tried to know much
but that fed them and paid rent

where drunken souls use
the line "I wanna *******."
as a compliment

for months, the kind son
looked over her living corpse
to prolong her breath
but tonight he stepped outside
to waste his with cigarettes

the flares of my eyes
are nothing but a warning
that fire seeks the air
found in sacred cavities
of your heart and memories

with faith I prayed at
your halls, awaiting advent
a priceless heaven
until they charged some coin for
a bottle of your spirit

just came home past twelve
felt my tired feet and thick eyes
the "fruits of labor"

I hated it
when your beauty
had to be seen
by countless sets of eyes.
Your shapes and tones
tampered by a
carefully blended touch
of Lark and Juno
as if they represent you well.
I still know
those details
dumb pictures could
never tell.

I hated it
that I knew you were once
carefree.
One, two, three;
Now you wait and count
as they gift
two-dimensional hearts
through ungrateful fingertips.
By then your pedestal
moved up the
ever-refreshing gallery—
A glorified platform
where your beauty
is seen as commodity.
I knew a better use of
those fingers
at that time your
textures lingered.
Soft and calm,
damp and warm;
you were unparalleled
at least for me.

I hate it
that now my
proximate gazes
only graze
your distorted
ideals of real touch
and of real pain;
when each ornate sunrise
embedded on the
landscape of your pores
seek for a casual
tourist's approval.
Hell, I wanted to stay
like an immigrant castaway
living in your skin
day and night;
when you didn't need
to trend
and pretend
that you have certain angles
because you were a
three-*******-sixty—
A panoramic view
of an ancient city
and your valleys were never dry;
back to the era
when you never had to try.
For you I was always homesick
but I still know
to get burnt by young love
was quick.

We were bound
to grow apart.

I hate it
when all I could do
is scroll up
and forget you.

long streets make tired feet
her words formed intersections
as if roads could rhyme
from the last dead end, i hope
to walk with her one more time

Our cycle of grit and grind
The brutal societal kind
Left the warm insides dry
To want ***** on the fly

Stretch the muscles sore
Yet he runs back for more
Forget the need to vent
Boy, you need to pay rent

Those arms toned healthy
By street dancing and Tai Chi
Are used as gears of machines
Or to wipe **** ***** clean

Those great young Picassos
Or those potential Platos
Have their way to top so steep
Since ideas and art are cheap

Those beautiful people
Paid to lend their *******
To wolves of superior collar
Proudly sorted by the color

The herd united in this song
La la la, there's nothing wrong
We are all numb as hookers
The system—the avid customer

swaying with the wind
brown arms sprout where they were cut
leaves fall but they won't
life will always try to heal
from things the roots can't speak of

i lack that courage
to watch a drop of liquid
fall into my eye

lads water her mind
"You look so gorgeous today"
but she's done with scripts
she tests those eyes if they stay
when trivial beauty is stripped

if death's an exit
it explains the red carpet
on the bathroom floor
credits written without ink
paper slipped under the door

if our souls were lines
mine is parallel to hers
close but never meet

my head is in throbs
induced by the drink called 'her'
the ceiling stares back
the morning sun's painful smile
patches the hole for a while

as a child it took me
a while to know
I was not living
in a tale where you tend a
toothless dragon
and fly;
where you accompany
a hobbit with a ring
through a war;
you just come to that age
where your powers
are stripped
you then start your life
sometimes the weight
of the world is just gravity
you can't "Hasta La Vista" away
sometimes the antagonist is
your anxiety
the prison break
is in your room
the holy war is your
struggle to get up
from bed
and sometimes the
glimmering meadows
on the way home
from the journey
are not followed
by credits rolling
but like a stone you do
never falling into place
like a lost jigsaw
if the puzzle was planned
it would be against you
all brutal and ******
but all up to entropy
there's no boy who lived
nor a chosen one
we are stardust put together
in such a way
whether or not it means anything
is up to you because
there is not plot
but your dreams
the force may not always
be with you
you have to be the force

if water was mood
anxiety's a quake that
brings forth tsunami

meet me in the gaze
bear a lawless mind armed with
infinite queries
for the key is to not peek
through the locks of broken hearts

we are the dunes formed
by prevailing desert winds
of people and time

We are too scared
      to have
  what we are too scared
        to lose;
     We are too scared
           to love
        when we are too scared
              to choose.

if eyes were mirrors
a child's are a calm lake as
they reflect the stars

if a song's honest
words would be stripped to the tones
just pain and desire

bleed red and freak out
on fire then burn out

to the sun, run
forget tastes of tongue
count the smallest leaves
of trees on walls bound to grow

sea waves on bottles
cast woven patterns
delayed by meaningless curing

to the moon, fly
leave the webs they spun
liberate a conscious gale
a rift in the clouds
coupled with the rains of doubt

we only reach the top speed
with our empty tanks
an ice-cold strife
of the race called Life

throw away the maps
only to wander where?
sever the threads
only to feel what?

empty homes for the find
it only becomes real
when everything else is left behind

if lust's a sin whose
intention is overlooked
man should not exist

if pain's a teacher
it is the most patient one
for we never learn