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2.9k · Mar 2018
on staying here
Sky Mar 2018
Queens is home
the Bronx is school
and the city is where I go to die, I declared to my friends.
There’s more to lose than just your wallet and virginity in that city,
it’s a world where
hot, tight, smelly underground ******* beat
faster than human hearts, and
truer than true love.
2.8k · Aug 2018
cherry blossom
Sky Aug 2018
meanwhile, at the capital...

streets lined with
mattresses like
piles of flesh

trees above
that shudder
like a final breath

a branch of cherry blossom
like baby pink fingertips
of limp forearms dangling off
edges of crinkled white mattresses,

a flower
2.1k · Apr 2018
Sky Apr 2018
met up with an old friend

says he wants to be an artist
born starving,
he says he
wants to be an artist
born starving

his hair,
bleached bone
and bitten-up
looking like a
lead sketch
"am i high-brow yet?

cause i'm


but not really, know what i
mean, mean things.

like art,
the girl next door,  
and life. yeah
******* life
that i'm all about.
to change!"

"to change?"

watch me
like a ******'

"--marker-lookin ***."

Poor Goose-Goose is a marker-lookin ***
1.6k · Aug 2018
The View from the Lazy River
Sky Aug 2018
as the bus pulls along the lazy river on Main,
a slouching mind and pressed cheek is a swimmer,
dipping toes

and meanwhile
the gentle murmur of pool-goers living inaudibly,
like hunched bunches
in shawls of shade

(interrupted only
by the occasional l-urch)

nodding, nodding
off and on and off and
into the water,
the swimmer slips in

Here, it is heaven on earth

an oasis

and the mind swims ever so far
ever so deep

i wonder...

and outside
a boy, barefoot
runs upstream

a shimmering second
an apparition of summer?
and out of sight
please help revise and improve! <3
1.6k · May 2020
Sky May 2020
i want to slot your nose bridge against mine
giggle when our foreheads bump
catch your lip between my teeth
exchange breaths and find that
yours tastes like my soap
stop eating my ****** soap
eat me instead
1.6k · Jul 2018
everything hurts
Sky Jul 2018
everything hurts

the throbbing in my chest is from
the city i loved,
the city i swallowed

the pounding in my veins is from
the race against the very crowd
i spilled myself into

the numbness of my mind is from
the ticking clock and tapping heel
and murmuring and pulsating,

the living, breathing, and the dying
all tapping their watches in perfect
unison, like everything you've ever seen
and more


the taka taka tak of the train,
is jagged against my sides

i keel over at the altar as the
train approaches the station

and still,
thank God!

everything hurts

i must still be alive
a whole mood
1.6k · Apr 2018
toronto rain
Sky Apr 2018
your eyes,
waxy and chromatic
seeped through my clothes and
soaked my skin,
bent my bones and
dyed my concrete spine
blue magenta.

forgive me, forgive me
my revolving-door mouth,
my pendulum heart,
my clammy hands.

my religion is jazz but
i swear to God,
I'm Roman Catholic.

and so I brought you some tulips,

cause I can't lose you
to New York.
baby give me a chance
1.6k · Sep 2018
Sky Sep 2018
2 AM:

i'm falling in, and out, and in, and out,
of sleep.

my mind reaches:
arching forwards,
slowly uncurls a single finger

pinkish joints blossom

the slightest graze of fingernail
and what i think is real bursts into a million,
spinning globules sent
skittering down a marble hall,
who knows how long?

but sometimes there are no marbles--
there are only shooting stars

masses of hazy, gaseous yellow
pixels, flickering and glitchering

in the corners of my eyes, hover
at my brow, drop at my feet ah...

a sadness devoid of

like androids,
two dreamscapes
1.3k · Aug 2018
dear stupid valentine
Sky Aug 2018
the stupidest love
the blindest love
is also
the purest love

(and perhaps
the stupidest
and blindest people
are also
the purest people)

love for the sake of loving.

for the way your name stains my tongue
so berry-blue
and the way our gazes hold
tight like a rubber band

do not love for your sake or mine.

and most of all, love
at your own risk.

i love you whole
from the top of your head to the
tip of your toe,
even the grime under your nails
(but that's gross man, please cut them)

i love you unconditionally
but leaving ***** underwear all over the house?
you're testing me.

i want to love so much that
love drips out from my wounds
and out of every pore of my body,
and you'll say



f* you

i want my love to be flawed
like you, before that morning bed selfie

my ***

i want my love to take your form,
both your chocolate abs
and your flat ***

no, you're not special
i could love anyone-- just give me time
but i chose you

you're special after all
a love poem
1.2k · Jan 2019
sobare sundays
Sky Jan 2019
                                                               ­                where are my clothes...

she wakes with a start,
your little robin and her
bare-breasted sunday morning

                                                        ­                       where. are. my clothes?

the sweet, white milk,
coffee barely missing her lips, i am pushed away yet
cascade down her sweet chin, neck, and out my window
onto the clothesline below

staining her
song: "Creep" by Radiohead
1.1k · Apr 2018
Seoul boy
Sky Apr 2018
Seoul boy
nice kid, eighteen, from the East
took on the east side
and the west side

story goes,

his mother knew
"much dings"
and his father knew politics, so
"less dings"

his mother was a woman of
spoke of feminists,
spoke of progress,
read many books and
spoke goot engeulish,

"and your job?"
"No, that is your father question."


his father was a man that
ran for a lot and
stood for a lot and
looked far ahead and
above of his head but
never really

seem to
stop? Seoul boy thought,
of Times Square. Times Square.
everyday, out there
selling shirts that say
and umbrellas
when it rained.

(and yes, it rained
in the city of dreams)

soft-lookin' kid
hard cash,
best friends with the
homeless "trash", so-called.

"urban campers,"
"friendly locals!"
"fairly loco?"
"lotsa cOcO."


Seoul boy, working at a
Greenwich pharmacy

first-time paycheck
first-time real job
first-time AC
first-time man ask me


there, somewhere
out there.

your home.
my home? yeah.
no. wait what?

this is home
even gay man knew.
even homeless knew.

even Seoul boy knew.

"best place I am live,
'till die."

he said

"best place is
the New York City."

he said
895 · Aug 2018
uncle's words
Sky Aug 2018
i've become old...

i can tell by

1) the seasons, growing shorter

trees these days seem to be in such a hurry to
shake their leaves off

2) the growing number of people that are gone

by the time you come back with tea and


wherever the days went
that's where they took my friends, too

they've all gone in search for
Bigger & Better
(although i can't imagine what could be
Better than my tea)  

they've all gone in light of

"she promised to live with me..."

"i promised myself that one day..."

"the future is promising..."

"more promising than here..."

i stopped believing in these promises
last Sunday when i overheard the neighborhood tarot
sobbing in the Confession booth:

"Father, that's when I realized that
the only promise in this world
is the present"


i find promise in
smaller promises,
such as

1) a good chance of rain this afternoon

2) your alarm has been set to 7 AM

3) see you tomorrow


people don't remember what they ate for breakfast,
while they remember the life they have yet to live
and so
i stopped remembering


i only hope that when tomorrow comes the
view outside my window will not change
and what that view means to me
will not change, as well

the city will still light up all the night with its strange fire
and the people will still be in love with powerwalking


in truth
i live in this state of constant fear:
when i turn away, the city will cease
(like dream machines)

if i blink too hard,
this all might just become a line
from some book i think
i read sometime in
grade school
(which name i can't recall)

if i were to move away
would it all wait for me?

do i really love this?

or am i just afraid of losing it?

and while i wonder,
i don't dare take my eyes off of
the view outside my window


you say that life is loving and leaving
again and again,

then i'm not interested in life

what's so beautiful about broken hearts?


if happiness for me
is 2nd paragraph on page 149,
let me be an inkblot
in time, forever still
835 · Apr 2019
The Haircut
Sky Apr 2019
hair on me, felt vain.

hair on me, felt extravagant,
foolish. like a curtain of pearls
that i must s-weeeep

                ­ .....clink

out of my eyes, what a bother.

hair on me, felt vain.
hair is for loving,
loved, to love, with
and length to be pulled on,
be taut
be supple and silk between the fingers. to be stroked, to come in strokes, to spill
over and tumble and tangle and knot,
and in every which way. from billowy to willowy wisps,

hair on me, felt vain.

it made me expect. it made me crave.
it needed to be swept, it needed to be maintained. it needed to be slept with, it needed to be played. it needed to be loved. and i had no love to spare, and especially no love to be gained.

hair on me, felt vain.

glimmering, shimmering, even when wet in the sullen rain. there was a yearning. a yearning to be made. a yearning to be touched. a yearning to become--

yes, you were beautiful. even wet, in the sullen rain

--something else, something more

beyond me
in that sullen rain. i turned, expecting nothing, perhaps even worse.

but there I saw, in the puddle,

you framed my face.
subtle, like petal. my cheek
rested in the crook of your
arm like perfect.


I had to let you go
and so


i cut you away
piece by piece
like an unsatisfied lover

(we loved, we loved, it wasn't, enough)

each snip resounding,
each snip more definite

(we loved, we loved, but it wasn't, enough)

you fell away
the way winter falls away into spring,
spring falls away into summer,
summer falls away,

you fell away and i almost despised
how beautiful you looked,
there on the floor

in death, in defeat.

but that made me all the more certain,

you were not for me. even in death.
even in defeat.

hair on me, felt vain.
hair on me, felt extravagant.

hair on me, demanded love
and i would have none of it.
829 · Jan 2019
in my head
Sky Jan 2019
sometimes. i live in my head so much.

i look in the mirror and
i'm an actual,
physical being. (whaat?)

and when someone comes and speaks to me,

" can see me?"
then they always say smthng like "you're bUggin"
731 · Aug 2018
Sky Aug 2018
(i only hope that it won't be so sad)

somewhere, in an empty row of trees,
that you still exist
is a truth that i cannot believe

and like the gentle sway of foxtails in the wind,
it is a truth, that can be seen
yet cannot be felt by the heart

when i was young i would squint my eyes and watch
those faraway hills, bobbing in and out of my vision

and as if to say
those faraway days will never return,
the hills in my pillowcase
are easy to see and
ever so close


when i close my eyes i begin to dream, what is not a dream but a spring that will one day come to me, and in that spring, looking to find again that empty row of trees, is a scene where i turn my head to home, and unlike some melodrama i can feel the sorrow on my face meanwhile i stare and stare and stare with my heart, yearning to feel something that cannot ever be seen, and that is just like the gentle sway of foxtails in the wind...
translation from a poem i originally wrote in Korean
609 · May 2018
death and spring
Sky May 2018
“Where, O death, is your victory?
    Where, O death, is your sting?”

- 1 Corinthians 15:55


O Lord, sanctify this:

as huddled mourners wept themselves dry

--a grove of blackened birch that grows
around a solemn shadow, a vine upon bone

as pressed toes crumbled through mausoleum floor

--a great Kingdom that has gone mute
for the buzzing of bees, mindless murmur of wind

as overcast eyes stabbed blindly

--the billowing stone masts in an ocean of grass
betrayed no signs of the carnage

in accordance with the Scriptures
life delivered the fatal blow

and death--

death was alive
and throbbed within me.
some moby **** and the memories from today morning's visit to the cemetery
603 · Apr 2018
Sky Apr 2018
i don't know when it was but one day, my apartment began to grow
cardboard boxes. they came from


all at once-- a silent
invasion, i felt a faint ache in the back of my neck but
alas, what could i do? i allowed it to

now as i sit amidst the cardboard boxes, and hear their
rich conversations
and articulate speech, i cannot help but realize that the apartment is a stage. and the boxes have more stage presence than i have ever had. and suddenly i am the most pathetic, lowly actor on this cardboard stage of cardboard boxes and i wonder to myself, where did i go wrong?
Sky Jan 2018
Pursue the horizon, o you! o mine
No longer shall you wander the depth within
Where the years are cold, and dark and endless
And tuck the wool about your shoulders, now

No longer shall you travel alone, o mine
Lighten those eyes and springen that step
Lest you lose your way, and left, you pine
Those dark and endless years, most weary

Yonder you see (alas!) the blue horizon
O you, o mine, do not be disheartened,
do not lose your penchant for enchantments
For it is the horizon that is blue, and not you

And it is blue, for the sodden, downtrodden,
And merely, odd-end...
Is blue, regardless of you!
And you! regardless
569 · Aug 2018
love life
Sky Aug 2018
i love you, i told him
he stared back at me with those lovely
brown eyes

marry me, i said to him and
although he stayed quiet i could sense

the answer
from behind his smiling lips

i smiled and in one
swift motion

smacked the poster of him onto my bedroom wall

its crooked
its difficult being a fangirl...
538 · Apr 2018
Sky Apr 2018
girl, don't pretend.
all dressed up in your
going Holly in Las Vegas
doing Molly by the Grand

girl, don't pretend.
one day you wake up at Kevin's
the next you wake up at Devin's
you do your make-up for Heaven.

yeah he loves Loosey
'course he do
he loves her
but how about you?

girl, ditch the Gucci
and the *****
and the boujee
folie a you

and don't pretend
to do
the things
that you don't do
lest, I leave you
ya hurd
533 · Jun 2018
a friend
Sky Jun 2018
and then all of the sudden,

she wears crumbs of roses on her cheeks like
it's nothing,

she wears angel's dust on her eyes like
it's nothing,

she wears clothing that

waltzes around her waists

and whispers around her ******* like
it's nothing,

she wears King Tut's bangles
on the tips of her ears like
it's nothing,

and now
she wears me on her hip
dangling at the tip of a single polished nail, like
i'm nothing,

we're nothing


i'm nothing.
it was nice while it lasted
526 · Oct 2018
Sky Oct 2018
im guilty--
biting my nail, biting my lip,
biting my
t o n g u e

fidgeting, flickering eyes that go
on and off, on and off

im chronic,
in a state of
mind your own

im obsessed with
looking down at my feet as i walk

im forever stuck
in this awkward
b o d y

when i've already
a few hundred times

i dont have *******
i have two hearts,
beating out of my chest

im fragile,
might just topple over
or burst
into a million pieces of

in my room:
its always somebody's birthday
that somebody is me
but i don't know somebody,
perhaps i used to know me
perhaps i never did

sometimes i want
bright, round, yellow
fresh, spunky, don't-give-a-****

ill roll
whenever you put me down

im just a lemon:
yellow, iffy-butty

dont put me down

i just want someone to know me
(love me)

i just want to be an orange:
i wanna be what i seem
nothing to go off about
nothing to get put down about

i come as i am
and i get sent back home for it

you see--
i know nothing
all too well
lemonade gang gang
521 · Sep 2018
The Adventures of Time
Sky Sep 2018
the passage of Time
through the tunnels
of my mind

renders a weary passenger,
(impossibly burdened
by the slight breeze
grazing cheek and
rushing by)

He yells in frustration,
a ringing in my ears

plants fists in the walls,
a throbbing in my head

when i close my eyes,
i picture the passage of Time:

white-knuckled, clenching the steering wheel
his back is buckled, a bitten-up pencil,
and the haunting rattle of wet,
staccato breaths

"i want to escape"

and i am sorry--
eternally, sorry
510 · Jan 2019
what doesn't fill me
Sky Jan 2019
food. i wonder what
money. tastes like, i wonder what
freedom. tastes like, i wonder what
you. taste like, i wonder what "taste" tastes like, you know, like

bOUNces off the
tip/ of/ my/ tongue, a tinny little--


skinny little--


--a thing,
some-thing, th-thing, th-thick,
a phull-er th-thing to
phill. me. up.
make me pheel

so p h u c k i n g


(ag-yen. ag-yaaeeen. mm.)
Sky Feb 2019
would you like a cup of coffee?
would you like that with milk? sugar?
would you like me to be your coffee table?

sometimes i wonder whether i
make you coffee
dust the dustless windowsills
and run water over wet dishes

to justify my being-here
to justify my being
to save me from myself
do i make her coffee for her? or for me?
456 · May 2018
Sky May 2018
color isn't just the sky, i know that.
the rain, the snow, and all the blues
along with the different hues that
make me
(and you)

color isn't just all niceness, although
there's many a nice (and a vice) that
throws its body behind
its color, like (for instance) the deep dark red of
lust, or blood

color isn't just a thing that's there and with
its cosmic strength and chroma-power,
just sits upon your face as if saying
"i'm not actually here."

then what? was it before
(i won't lie) my friends said that among
the many guys i've liked?
you are? a bit, uh,
kind of different?
different kind of...? it was a bit
awkward, they said
you need your own
spectrum? what?
they said,
they said,
they said...


and hah...
of course you're brown, of course-- you're not
just brown, you're
very brown and definitely positively
brown and yes, you're
one of them, and of course! that matters, yes,
it matters that
you're one of

(brown) (brown?) (brown.)

and of course i'm not brown, i'm just
very not brown, i'm very unlike you and
very yellow, definitely positively
yellow and you know what? of course
that matters. that i'm not one of
you and
rather, one of

it's almost funny? how the sky
has always been very blue, the clouds
have always been definitely white, the grass
has always been positively green and yet
you? and you? you've definitely, positively
always been...

you haven't.

but they said (i won't lie) to
eyes, and so
you know what?

i did.
what is color to you? to me, color is awkward feelings and beautiful nature. but more awkward feelings.
453 · Sep 2018
russian doll effect
Sky Sep 2018
i swallow hard and the act breaks me in two, a deafening crack and the crease on my neck gives way like grandma's Russian doll i thought would never open again
429 · Feb 2020
Sky Feb 2020
a function (of a function (of a function)⭠⭠⮪
   ↳ function (of a function (of a function))     ↑
                                                               ­               ↑
function (of a function (of a function))           ↑
⇅                                                              ­             ↑
function (of a function (of a function))→ → ⤴

a cute curvy carbon contraption
that salivates at the ringing of a bell
that clamps shut when its hairs are touched
that flies south for the winter

is the earthworm that eats dirt and ***** soil
the lichen that makes barren rock habitable
the bees that pollinate so many plants
the euglena

i seem to breathe, yet am none of these. this makes me
a broken Bigbelly blinking in the dark
a traffic light saying wait, wait, wait to an empty sidewalk
429 · Apr 2018
brownstone of my body
Sky Apr 2018
'brownstone of my body,' i had declared
privately my first confession. somewhat
intimate. and as my voice quivered like
name-tags on teenage trees, i hoped you
found me endearing in your brazen ways.
i come off as naive, to your unblinking gaze:
passive, unimpressed, and mostly unfazed.
my small pink feet are soft and raw against
your weathered knees. and you say my belly
is too mellow with its paper-doll creases, flesh
too easily torn by your cut-brick corners, face
too childish for your middle-aged games. but
my thighs are like your alleys, leave no space
for nonsense, is my whole as is my part, if you
can love me for my thighs, i will be content with
something along the lines of 'my brownstone
loves me for my thighs, my thighs
have no alleys and i would have it no other way' and
I would ask no question as the blossom of my tender body is
pinched between your fingers and rolled into a
tiny pink cigar, stamped out before ever being lit.
and i would never ask, is this (ever) womanhood?
draft version
Sky Jan 2019
has anyone ever told you that your voice
exacerbates the past

your voice gnaws at the edge of my soul
as if my soul is a tough, stale gingerbread cookie that still tastes somewhat? okay

your voice has the appearance of a soft kiss on the forehead at dusk before i scurry back in to have supper, smiling to myself

your voice has the appearance of braids and freckles on a goofy, smiling face and sun dresses on my funny little body

it aches
but that's somewhat? okay
Bedroom- We All Need Something
391 · Apr 2018
here we are again
Sky Apr 2018
turned 25 and thought
gotta go back,
high-time for home

(home-time for High)

took the bus, route 31
to the
moral-less high-ground

(text my sister)

"no ID, aware, i'm going"  

look up. and
here we are again, big city
New City  
south-side, home despots
licking baby bottle pop
soda-can sidewalks

little brown brother
drinking Fanta with friends
smoking hot-***
at Chang's
like apostolic gang
(gang gang)
High's homecoming
(southside Chicago)

inspired by NCT's new song "Yestoday"
go see English lyrics vid
it's lit
Mark's verse
372 · Jun 2018
On the 7
Sky Jun 2018
in the middle of New York
a white-and-blue,
Pacific island:

sitting on itself,
prim and low
as if waiting for someone important, but
not wanting to seem so.

sitting on itself,
as if waiting for someone,
many boats go by
(no, not that one...)
(not that one, either...)

sitting on itself,
small and proper
proper and small...
(**** is wet)

sitting on itself...
I wonder How long
has he been sitting there like that,
won't his
feet be cold?
**** be wet?

The lonely island...

he wishes someone would come and sit beside him

sit close but
not too close, as if
in the past few lives but,
not in this one (yet)

he wishes someone would come and sit beside him

quietly for a moment
then turn to him and say,
with sparkling Pacific angel eyes
turn to him and say,

"The world needs you, Steve."

And Steve would continue staring off into the distant, blue horizon where
there's not much, save for a
distant, blue horizon

but pigeons are not gulls,
gulls are not pigeons.

and the Hudson River
is 315 miles long.

"My name isn't Steve."
Sky May 2018
There goes ******’s nose
Larger than life, breathed in
“Majestic, it sprang” from his face
“The marvel of time, the wonder of men”
Molded by the General and his
lyrical men

Whip Bobbie Lee you may,
for this miracle happened
in the strangest way
in the meadows,
in the bright of day
three invaluable cigars lay

Some men smart in ways unimagined,
appear as Janus in the midst of kings,
feign blunder to catch the unsuspecting plunderer,
who waltzes right in (or away) from his fate,
******* the grit out of men, they lose faith

To His right is the good thief
and he inclines his head
But a thief is a thief, nonetheless?

Two-hundred-ninety-nine-hundred-two men are in the cornfield, their mouths silently forming hurrahs and their hands slack at their sides.
Two-hundred-ninety-nine-hundred-two-men are ****** eagles of Indiana.

“No shock can destroy”, the carnage of Shocksburg
“The world shall behold”, “the triumph of”
“Tyranny, sorrow, and darkness”
“Hurrah for the” “dream
of a madman, the song of a fool.”

McClellan sees double, no, triple.
And Lincoln, victory where there isn’t.
And I, beauty where one should not.

Let men become crusaders, emancipators, and proclamators,
of all things and
all things good and just.  

Your arms resemble corn stalks and your eyes
poppy seeds. Spread-eagle yourself, at the mercy of
the Kingdom of Heaven.
Say your last Hurrahs and clutch that laundry tight
to your chest.

Disillusioned people get nowhere, at least illusioned people can
walk themselves over to the doors of Death?

Samuel is like many other black laborers in the infantry-- mistaken in the most wonderful way.
“Hurrah! for the Union” he says.
and I begin to teach him how to write.
collection of SEPARATE poems throughout an AP US history research paper done on the Civil War (27th Indiana infantry regiment)

355 · Sep 2018
time spills forth
Sky Sep 2018
and time suffocates me, whisks past my face fills my nostrils and mouth with pearls of despair fill me as if sliding into place, a destiny slept-on, overwhelms me with its frothy rush like a cup someone overturned in the bath.
336 · May 2018
Summer Plans
Sky May 2018
life is so boring? the suggestion? of something beyond,
that is beyond me. what should we do
today? what should we eat and where
should we go? what should we be and where
should we start?

if i were to start with you? i would only need a few more
lifetimes with you...

watching the fireworks through your eyes, some
sultry summer evening.
ripped jeans, the back of some SUV, parked
haphazardly on Jones Beach.
we tip our heads together, my summer clothes
soaking through yours, a guitar riff
signals the synchronization of our dreams, the outro
signals the drowning of me out of yours. is boring? let's stay this way.
328 · Apr 2019
Motion Motion
Sky Apr 2019
Motion Motion my devotion
on a lyre and on a quotient
you weave most lovely mind-contortions
yet grasp such fair mathematic notions

Motion Motion my devotion
on the R or in the ocean
you ricochet, stumble, and plie
an animal of the Poles, i did daresay

Motion Motion my devotion
in all the bustle and commotion
there were delays, I had lots of Time(s)
but lost track of them all when you waltzed into mine

Motion Motion my devotion
your can- or cannot-touch-your-toes
sha'nt stop your *****, hips, and toes
in Motion Motion,

strike a pose
a new york city love story
323 · Jun 2018
four days
Sky Jun 2018
and in
((four days))
i want to find myself on that familiar path home,
"the heat never had the chance to get to me,
for he got to me first."
(oh he killed me, yes he did.)

he did the
thing that she said
he would do,
which could be that he didn't do a thing at all, or that he
did a thing
(which could be that, he did the thing,
or that he didn't.)

the heat killed me last year, it cannot
**** me again. am i invincible? am i skipping home in
a giddy, flowery fit? or power-striding to avoid tripping on
my own tears, straight into the nearest pothole?
(am i already dead?)

i can see the spoilers in the movie reels now, i close
my fingers and squeeze my eyes shut but the tears resting on the corners of my mouth, yes
i can feel them trembling now.
the shaking of my poor heart and the ghostly fingers of feelings, yes
i can feel them being stolen now.
but alas, i shan't lose hope. i shan't lose hope...
(i don't feel so good) GURL you don't--

--hey hey, hush now. listen for the ending, folks.

four days. four days. four days. four days.
(until the summer.)
four days. im hoping.
320 · Mar 2019
It's A She
Sky Mar 2019
as the apple falls from the tree
and hits the ground,
with a dull thud
her head hit the ground
and lolled to the side and i could see
the bruises on her somber little face,
what impressionable youth,
what delicate youth we carry on our branches
303 · Apr 2018
i want
Sky Apr 2018
i want to feel pink and in love,
i want to drink tea and watch the rain tumble down my window,
i want to feel the cool breeze and my baby hairs go flying,
i want to write poetry and feel good,
i want to write for others and for myself,
i want to be heard yet not too much,
i want to feel free but not too much,
i want to travel the world and be an artist and walk on wet rocks barefoot and sleep on bamboo-mat floors and climb mountains and i do not want to do my homework.
301 · Jan 2019
sandcastle in the sky
Sky Jan 2019
and as a sandcastle in a storm topples into the earth, she fell away, slowly. gently.

but perhaps it was an illusion
there was no way to tell.
291 · Apr 2018
diagnosis of a dead poet
Sky Apr 2018
the poet's words are terribly weak, and his mind so terribly sore and dry.

those words without luster do not pierce the thick act of life, and do not interrupt the rhythmic rotting of metro-corpses as they live lives thrice lived and lived over again.

words dulled and dumb, like word-plugs, deliver no pleasure, and those who try to force them into the tender pink cochleae of springtime azaleas are rapists,
the worst kind.

the poet's words are terribly few,
the volumes that once came forth, like falling floods, now spat with force from
fearfully pursed lips.

the words shiver and dissipate like glass upon contact with the broken floor, writhe flinch and eventually curl up into burnt remnants of clay "animals."

what once could have been a
zebra, dog, or sparrow takes no audible, tangible shape. and the pulse, if there is one, cannot be heard over the deafening croak of silence, for these words are as good as dead.
im so sad i literally cant write poetry lmaoooo
285 · Feb 2019
Sky Feb 2019
i laugh lion's heart
loping street by every stride
claw clattering cobblestone conviction
chest puffed out and head held high

climbing fences and
kissing dark breakers

all that, because i am afraid

so afraid so very afraid so very very afraid and of what, you may ask and i will say everything, EVERYTHING! in a roar akin to a king

but between colorful plumes i am
small, so very small
and so very afraid
284 · Jul 2018
Off Kanagawa
Sky Jul 2018
the tower is,
crescendo is an
arching arching


forever held
in deafening

and i am

my want,
hehe cheap poetry
284 · Jan 2018
BU (for father)
Sky Jan 2018
A hostel, somewhere in Gangnam.

It was around 10, possibly 11
hot chicken in a box, and a man holding it.

A small man
thin shouldered, narrow faced
chicken *****
He wore a light green vest or
rather, it wore him.

And each leg being 10 kilograms
each wing, about 8
and upon later inspection, there were
5 legs and 3 wings thus
74 kilograms, plus the box, then
76 kilograms and that
was the weight of his world, which he carried.


Her name is Soo-Ae, he said.

She is in the first grade and
can tie her shoelaces,
by herself

the elevator.

The chicken stepped inside, and
so did the man.

Her name is Min-Ju, he said.

She graduated 3 years later,
but I waited.
For her, I could’ve waited
3 hundred.

(Room 3 hundred three, right?)

3 hundred,
3 hundred one,
two, and


But sometimes,
just sometimes, you see,
shoelaces can tangle badly
like umbilical cords

I’m sorry,
Doctor Lee had said as he
held her hands, shaking
hands shaking hands, shaking

Poor Min-Ju, he said.

Poor Soo-han, he said.


(Uhm. Any green stuff?)


(Thank you.)

(Here, I’ll

pour you.)

(Thank you.)

Most of the time,
Soo-Ae unties them herself,
or asks me like,


but did you know, he asked

that the moment that a father gets depressed
is not the moment that he realizes
he cannot do it,
but is the moment that he realizes he must tell his
that he cannot do it,
and watch, helpless, as half the lights in her eyes
flicker and
die out.


Poor Soo-Ae, he said.

Poor Min-Ju, he said.

Poor Soo-han, he said.

(Pour me.
that’s good.)

and when your hands start shaking,
like, like
they become hard to untie,
those knots.

and everything.

Soo-Ae is no longer in the first grade,
and no longer wears ribbons in her hair.
Sometimes coming home very. late.

Where were you?
*******, you drunk.

Poor Soo-Ae.

Min-Ju is no longer three years younger,
And stays in bed, staring years.
Sometimes waking screaming sobbing.

Where is Soo-Han?
I hear him crying, where is he?

Poor Min-Ju.

Sometimes, big knots become
smaller, and smaller
and that’s when you know your life is over,
or that it’s time to get
new glasses, at least.

the liquor


Do you know
what happens when a knot
cannot be untied?
he asked

My bleary eyes
went from liquor,
to cup.

And finally,
to my father’s hand.

You cut it?


No, he said.


You keep on trying, whether it takes
three hundred years, or
three hundred and one, or
three hundred and two, or
three hundred and

You keep on



And that night, at a hostel
somewhere in Gangnam

my father.

thin shouldered, narrow faced
chicken *****,

wore a sad expression,
or rather,
it wore him. my father.


My poor,
poor father.
about a chicken delivery man
258 · Feb 2019
wonder what's worthwhile
Sky Feb 2019
if i look up at the sky

(or if i sit in the folds of my own stomach
for too long and i begin to feel like a soft and lukewarm watermelon)

i begin to think of tears that formulated but never really made it

and i wonder what's worthwhile

music is worthwhile
art is worthwhile
words are worthwhile
some people are worthwhile

and for that i might just stick around awhile
256 · Oct 2018
Sky Oct 2018
you emerge, dripping
in your last
suckled drops
of youth

i envy your

each step in your
-surefire- stride
light, but loaded

eyes w i d e r than your mind

mouth agape
i can only wish,

"just one drop"
254 · Apr 2018
meditation class
Sky Apr 2018
look, you're

let's try this for once,

just a simple

just try
try not thinking, just--

--up, you just thought! just--

--hey you thought again, how about--

--you just--

--wait stop--

--hey st--

S T O P  I T !
real struggles
249 · Apr 2018
What Do Poets Do?
Sky Apr 2018
the water
rushes and swells
tumbles like chaos
off the ledge  
into your palms
chaos, perfected
Sky Feb 2020
the rain makes the asphalt look sad and pregnant.

i turn my head for one moment and a lonely 7 train skitters by, barely grazing my left ear. i close my eyes. i close my eyes because if you look, you get sad and that's how you lose. so i look down at my feet at the soft, shimmering asphalt instead

and i watch the train through the asphalt. it torpedoes by, one silver frame at a time, like a silent film still bobbing around in its chemical bath. i continue to watch, from a safe distance.

(its like looking out the window at the cars zooming by. its all fun and safe until you reach your hand out a bit too far and the next thing you know, some ******* car up and runs away with it.
its like marriage.)

except im in college and the wheels of the train never quite touch the ground, but hover, hover over like some kind of homeless intoxicated guardian angel stranded in a sprawling urban desert.

(he lies on top a one of those BigBellys, lies on his stomach, sandaled feet dangling just inches from the ground. blink blink, goes the BigBelly. Gabriel groans,
incomprehensible muttering)

and the train throws bleachy yellow squares of light throw themselves onto upon the pregnant asphalt in fits of just destructive laughter and when they hit the ground by that time they're already hugging themselves, hugging and shaking all over like fuuuuuuck, it's sooo cold in here (in my body!) each one of em murmuring in a foreign tongue about how someone keepzon etching street names into the bathroom walls

Thayer and Broadway at 3AM on a Wednesday morning is someone's oasis, mine for as long as i stand here, my mind stumbling back n forth from one airpod to the other as i feel like im sinking down, down into the soft squishy asphalt wit the weight of my backpack making my shoulders touch the floor wit my bleachy yellow head dangling from my neck as i blink needily / cravingly / searchingly at a sidewalk that stares back at me with the most deadest honest (to godest) blankest expression i ever seen on a no-body

and when i look into its eyes i can see myself but im standing in the  middle of Times Square and -- hey -- everythings looking up! but it cant be me because im here at Thayer and Broadway dangling my head and angling it AWAY from the passing train because if you look, you get sad, you think of home, and when you think of home, thats when you really know you've lost, not sure what but you've lost and you probably cant even actually go home after youve lost because, well, mother**** it you've lost and life just likes to call you a cuck and hit you in the throat like that

but i wouldn't know, i haven't gotten that far yet
here i am standing at the intersection of Thayer and Waterman. the rain glistens on the deserted streets and it's beautiful, but really, all i want to do is go home.
235 · Dec 2019
Melody in the Dark
Sky Dec 2019
you took me by surprise
in the middle of the night
the slightest breeze and
there you were
by my side

you spoke to me
ever so gently
a song without its measures
no staff nor stand

oh-- you sang to me
ever so wonderflly
like a song without its
compositionality (theo-ret-i-cal-ity)

just a melody in the dark
on a lonely winter's night
you come to me
like a melody in the dark

there was not even a spark
not a fleeting glance nor tiny touch
there was not a single sign of you at all

oh-- just a melody in the dark
on a cold dark winter's night
you come to me
like a melody in the dark

not a signature of time
not a rhythm not a rhyme
you went unnoted
like a melody in the dark
i like singing but i cant read sheet music so i guess this is kind of about how music appears to me not as notes and time signatures but as...well...a melody in the dark LOL you get it?? cause i cant...physically...see the music.... :')))
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