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vanessa ann Apr 2020
we are milliseconds away from mortality, you and i,
your impending doom hanging over like suspense and the ghost
of your touch
lingers longer than zeus, hurts harder than your voice
the day is yet to break and the time
is a hair’s breadth between now and forever,
when the sun strikes you down i will fall with you
but for now, let us lie like gods in this space we call home;
wrists against wrists and teeth sinking into skins
— you’ve always been mine first, and a god second.

undoubtedly inspired by the relationship between achilles and patroclus, the  aristos achaion and his most beloved
vanessa ann Jul 2018
the next time
a boy tells me,
“i love you”

i will respond with
“thanks,
me too.”
vanessa ann Apr 2018
you liked your coffee black
no sugars, no milks
just black

it’s sickening, you once said
bitter’s the only way to go

i didn't quite understand it then
but i think i do now;

i guess too much sugar
isn’t good for anyone;
much less a boy
already made of molasses.
his order has always been the easiest to remember
(and it doesn't hurt that he has a face like that, too)
vanessa ann Feb 2018
brown-eyed boy,
you haunt my dream
with your golden gleam

brown-eyed boy,
i wonder if your touch is as soft
as the way you lay your eyes upon me
       [like i was fragile glass,
        and a simple whisper
        is enough to shatter me]


brown-eyed boy,
you’re neither the blues
of the deep abyss
or the viridescence
of oak leaves

brown-eyed boy,
you’re the soil nourishing me
all the riches of this earth
the oxygen i breathe

and brown-eyed boy?
loving you is like
overindulging in
honey
       [for you're so sweet
        and who am i to resist?]


-
because there aren't enough poems in this world about brown-eyed boys, whose honey sweet eyes bore into your soul
vanessa ann Jan 2018
I’ve never quite understood
Those who judge beauty
On a checklist
Whose boxes are drawn
By the pens of society

Because what is beauty,
if not in the eye of the beholder?
And what is beauty,
if not abstract
and utterly idiosyncratic?
- i’ve always preferred the crinkles in your eyes to the folds in one’s eyes, anyway
vanessa ann Mar 2020
i’m a year to twenty.
soon to be twenty-one,
twenty-two, twenty-three,
twenty four, and suddenly halfway to fifty;
when life gets a little more busy,
perhaps with a few kids running around,
and god forbid—my breath smelling like whisky.

then i’d turn sixty,
hopefully still as witty
and my tongue just as filthy.

and perhaps by then,
i’d gladly sell my kidney,
because it’s no biggie,
really,
if it means god takes pity
and returns me back to my fifties,
forties,
thirties,
twenties,
teen-ties.
vanessa ann Aug 2019
i am becoming the girl i've always wanted to be
vanessa ann Jun 2018
i guess what saddens me
isn't the distance
but rather,
the unshared memories
and new stories written
without you being in it
To my friends who are leaving this year.
I’m sad about you leaving, but not as much as knowing that you may no longer be a part of my life as big as you are right now. Everyone says we can always keep in touch. But the truth is, after a time of separation, we just start to lose connection. Everyday messages become scarce, Skype calls are long gone. The only interactions we'd have are Instagram likes and seeing unfamiliar faces along with yours on my feed.

I'll miss you guys, and I'll miss all the memories we have had together.
vanessa ann Aug 2018
you’re the sun that rose again in my life
a childhood dream come true
all tears are gone
the moment i set my eyes on you

you are happiness defined,
the cause of my euphoria
you are my peace of mind,
my love, my gloria

when i’m with you,
even the desert becomes the sea
all things seem possible
when it is just you and me—
      for it is in your presence,
      that i feel the most free.
"when i'm with you, i'm in utopia"

inspired and practically based on bts's euphoria. dedicated to yjh, my very own cause of euphoria.
vanessa ann Feb 2018
please do not
bring me flowers
to represent your love

roses wither and die,
i hope your love will not
vanessa ann Jan 2018
this is a tale
of two star-crossed lovers
with a love so powerful
they tainted the heavens
with bursts of colours

they were never meant to be;
mischievous little kids
finding love in sinful glee
in laughter, between dreams and reality

and though it was lawless,
they found solace
because in every prison,
they found a rhyme and a reason

but even for a love so great,
they could not escape
the fates’ wrath and envy

destiny pulled on their threads
cut them loose, thrusted them into misery;
for their memories were wiped clean,
but feelings remained as strong as they had ever been

the boy exiled in a far off land
across the pacific sea
the girl trapped in her need to break free
in a realm both boring and bland

ensnared in a labyrinth of woe
the lovers yearned for anything—
for something, for someone,
to obliterate this endless longing

the gods answered them
in the form of two loved ones
polished in every edge,
a perfect someone

but perfect felt too perfect
and not perfect enough
to fill up the hole
left by a perfectly imperfect

until one day the gods whispered
for the winds to push the two
and the birds to tug at their sleeves
over mountain and sea
even through the darkest valley
so their paths would finally meet

and so they did.

in the flurry of a moment
a pair of brown eyes met
and time was frozen
once more

the two stared intently
as if remembering a broken melody
a lost childhood song
branded as a wrong

the birds fluttered and flew
taking the cursed red fibre
snipped them in two
and the lovers felt all the lighter

it was the girl who spoke first:
“**** the stars.
i don’t want perfect,
i want you.”


eyes dazzling, the boy nodded:
“we’ll invert the universe—
the night sky a blank white
the stars pitch black
the earth moving in reverse”


the fates saw and surrendered
as the stars began to wither
for this love is love
in all its splendor

so the lovers walked away with a promise
under their breaths, they both swore:
“i lost you once,
but nevermore.”



they say no one can rewrite the stars,
so i propose we orchestrate supernovas.
vanessa ann Jun 2020
longing. yearning. wanting. so many words for
a singular feeling. they never taught me how
to love an enigma. mystery’s an intrigue.
it wrenches you in like

beast in beauty and the beast. joker in joker
now this is not to say you’re a ******* furry or
an anarchist’s *******: you are holy.
holy, as in baptise me

in your aprillian light;
grind my guts into grime
break my bones into brimstones and
let me love you twice

as hard. thrice the hurt.
four times the trouble,
five times the heart

you see, i’m very good at counting.

i’ll even do it for the both of us.
like how it’s been 437 days since saturn tore her knees.
75 days since you were anointed god.
20 after we fell apart and i know

i’m jumping into conclusions again. i know
you never said goodbye. not really,
but what is “see you when i see you” if not a gentle rejection?

you’re very fond of maybes,
that’s how i knew you were god.

so maybe we’ll meet in september,
shades of chartreuse forgotten under our feet.
changes in the weather, changes in the sweater
your touch no longer seduces me like summer

so then maybe,
with bones regrown like eden
i will reach for your temple

and show you how much i love you.
vanessa ann Apr 2020
god does not love me
i think he doesn’t even know my name,
yet i still wonder what he’d call me by once i arrive
at the gates of afterlife,
would he disregard what he wrote in the book of life,
look me in the eye
and call me by the name
my parents christened me with
instead of human number 99560000c, earth #05?

but who am i fooling;
i am but a donut flying across infinity in lightspeeds
one moment there, a moment later swallowed by the hungry monster who awaits
in the black hole

am i a snack for idle gods?
a cut of chicken running from the jaws of earth, unaware
that it is merely flopping from one bowl to another,
flour to egg to crumbs—
a breading offering for the deities

most people have come to accept that, i think
as i jump yet again into the bowl of flour
but i am not most people, as i refuse to believe
the reality that i am but a speck of dust fleeting through life,
an insignificant bug easily quashed by the stinking
foot of infinity,
that old hag.

life is temporary
too much breading does not do any good
i will soon be the trillionth dumped into that pool of hot oil

but **** if i’m not going to try scorching the tongue of a god,
and while i’m at it,
be the most delicious flying donut in the galaxy.
―a feast for the gods
vanessa ann Mar 2018
it’s as if
loving you
has become
a habit
and it's one i can't let go of just yet
vanessa ann Apr 2020
you were my home then,
the warmth in my fireplace, my
chest purifier, key finder;
whenever i leave you clung to me like dirt on the dishes
i carry with me your sickness for
love, for good.

somewhere between morning calls and warm bedsheets, i took
your hospitality for kindness for authenticity for love for truth
i was still drying my hair on your bathroom mat when you rang
the bell, and reminded me it’s time for
my checkout.
—i hope you enjoyed my stay
vanessa ann Aug 2019
you were beautiful still,
the blessings of the gods never really left you

silver hair like fallen stars
playful fingertips tracing the sky
with twinkling eyes and little giggles,
you were almost childlike

i love you,
even your voice was silky as ever
your lips grazing my skin,
i almost believed it.

you smiled then,
i couldn't quite recall why;
the fuzziness of a dream all at the same time a comfort
and a curse.

but you smiled your toothy grin,
and it took everything in me to not smile back

******* you and your beautiful smile

butterflies in my chest,
i was a schoolgirl once again

i love you,
you were downright adorable
with your stubborn conviction

wind in your hair
sunlight caressing your cheeks
you held my fingers tight
and kissed me good night

i felt my heartstrings tug

but worry not,
my heart's been through so much
to possibly mistake it for love
— sometimes i miss being in love, but was i ever?
vanessa ann Mar 2018
In a tunnel dark and deep
With no sign of life
You see the light at the end of it
Yet I fail to

The Devil had placed his hands upon my eyes
His hollow eyes sending chills down my spine
For all I see are faults
Of every single thing that I’ve done

It was a pit cold and damp
My soul struggles to break free
There was no flicker of hope
There was nothing I could see

The world ripping apart strand by strand
I endure to live
With these battle scars
But in this broken world
I must strive

The sky was grey and still
Humming with no thrill
The rainbow on the other side never came
And who am I to blame?

As I hang on to the last strands of life
A feeling of dread and sorrow wash over
The Fifer blows a haunting melody on his fife
My last glimpse of the world as love to its lover
I wrote this poem in seventh grade, and remembered being very proud of it. I know it's far from being my best work, but if it were not for this piece, I would not be here today.
vanessa ann Mar 2020
it's a pretty simple recipe, really;
white bread, toasted until golden brown;
a slice of cheese, a drizzle of ketchup;
eggs, beaten;
fry for 4 minutes, or however long you desire.

sometimes i’d snap a pic or two for my friends—
all of whom said it was unhealthy,
but it can’t be more unhealthy than staying up past 2,
can it?

because who cares if i were to eat breakfast at 12pm,
or dine as the sun rises?
the universe sure as hell doesn’t give a ****,
especially not in the middle of a crisis
caused by some ******* virus

it’s not like time gives out prizes,
for everyone who’s managed to maintain a “healthy” routine
and doesn’t spent 18 hours
in front of  a screen

i’m getting tired of compromises
every new problem that arises
hardly surprises
me anymore

so if you’ll excuse me,
i’ll go back to my devices
now
—come again during business hours.
vanessa ann Mar 2020
i want to go back to tokyo,
somehow the city always feels like home, even when
i’m always a foreigner;
a touristy tourist with a camera on my hand,
snapping polaroids and selfies with a thousand filters
layered on top of each other,
to enunciate the beauty of the city and at the same time,
reinforce my place as a touristy tourist.

i want to go back to tokyo,
to feel the night breeze kissing my face,
or the scorching daylight next to the vending machine that sets my soul
ablaze;
hot and cold, cold and hot,
i don’t know whether to take my jacket or leave it at the bnb
but i know how cold i’d be,
at night when the sun’s asleep,
and i should be too, if i weren’t too busy loving tokyo.
to my favorite city in the world,
i know i'm seeing you in sakura-tinted glasses,
but i do love you. and i hope you can be my home someday.
vanessa ann Jan 2018
perhaps i wasn't in love with you
but rather the idea of you

i was so alone
any sign of affection
would drive me to infatuation
too young to know love
vanessa ann Jan 2018
you resemble sunsets;
pretty
and so quickly gone
but i'll be with you from dusk till dawn
vanessa ann Feb 2018
you're the center of my galaxy
but i'm just a speck of star
in a sea of many
and just like stars, you're so far away...
vanessa ann Feb 2018
let me fall asleep,
before i fall in d
                               e
                              ­     e
                                        p
vanessa ann Jul 2018
what would i give
to wake up next to you
fingertips dancing on hips
as curtains give way to sunlight;
the world,
a wonder of sight?

what would i give
to drown...
in the crook of your neck
or the streams of your laughter
as you lurched your body forward
and laughed
with all your might?

what would i give
for our souls to entwine
the raggedness of your breath
spilling into mine?

what would i give
to be given a gift;
to weave another reality;
craft a different mentality;
build a sanctuary;
one with you and me
our confined souls broken free?

just what would i give
just what should i find
to redraw the line
for this silly popstar love of mine?
for yjh: my angel, my muse, and my very own popstar love

This was inspired by In Love with A Ghost's "popstar love", from which this poem got its title from. It's moments like these that I cherish; when the night is shifting to day and inspirations start flooding in. And it has always amazed me too, how music is able to influence my creative process.
vanessa ann Dec 2019
you don’t shy away;
that’s my favourite thing about you

you’re comfortable in your skin,
or under pounds of cake,
in your ripped jeans and cropped tops,
sneakers or wedged heels

handsome in dresses
pretty in suits
shades of pink and blue
gender norms have got nothin’ on you.

comfortable. safe. confident.
that is you.
for minghao
vanessa ann Apr 2018
i loved you too much
to not let you go
vanessa ann May 2018
you had a pretty face,
and prettier lies
vanessa ann Mar 2018
i’ve always known
you were a danger
vanessa ann Jun 2018
writing is where i feel the most at peace,
the most honest i've ever been with myself

i don't feel the pressure
to create visually enchanting pieces,
nor do i feel the need
to impress or to please

i write so selfishly,
so inwardly,
so unapologetically;

as if the world is mine,
as if it revolves around me,
and will continue to do so,
as long as words keep flowing like spilled ink
on marble

with every letter that i scribe,
i build a bridge to dreamland;
with every word i craft,
i fill the tank with gasoline
and give myself the wings
to fly

because you could claim
that you've taken everything
that made me who i am,
but you could never take away my words
which i have so intricately
sewed onto my tongue

because for as long as my words live,
i live;
and as long as my words thrive,
i'll fly.
this is not a perfect poem by any means, and certainly not my best work. but it is by far the most raw, most honest piece i've written. i felt a great amount of love for this art as i wrote this at 1 am, and i hope that you can feel some amount of it as well.
vanessa ann Jan 2018
Our tale is of a cinematic love.
But darling, life isn’t a movie.

Our love is a cinematic masterpiece,
and just like all the good ones,
it must end.
vanessa ann Feb 2018
who are you,
to enter my heart so easily
and leave just as so?
vanessa ann Mar 2018
flatten your tongue
slip it between your teeth

n.

your little lips
forming an elipsis

o.

put them together
and may you declare
a word you’d so carefully deny—
no.

you spell it out
on table tops
shout it
from the rooftops

and when cursed hands
seek to defile your shrine
may you exclaim
"i am mine"
for my precious friends with hearts too soft to say no. may you be a little more selfish.
vanessa ann Mar 2018
perhaps i have only kronos to thank
for our timezones are close enough
for us to meet in dreamland
where the line
between dreams
and reality
bends
at least you're not lightyears away
vanessa ann Mar 2018
How does loving him feel like?, my sister had once asked.

I couldn’t put together my words back then,
so here it is now.
Words bearing the weight of the universe,
transliterated into a language you can comprehend.

Loving him feels like Christmas mornings at Hogwarts. When little Harry arrives in the Great Hall, and tasted magic for the very first time. It’s the same feeling Percy gets when he tastes ambrosia, the same satisfaction you’d get when Percabeth kisses underwater.

It’s the safety of your covers when the night had passed, and you still couldn’t bring yourself to sleep. It’s staying indoors when it’s pouring outside, occupied with the company of a book. It’s getting lost between the pages and not minding the time. The fresh smell of your favorite outfit once it’s out of laundry, ready to be worn again.

It’s warm,
it’s soft.

It’s not another cliché,
it’s love.
I'm sixteen, I probably wouldn't know the first thing about love.
But I think it ought to feel like this: safety and comfort, much like home.
And the deeper I fall in love with this one person, the more I realize this:

To love the right person, is to love oneself.
vanessa ann Mar 2020
sorry, did i stutter too much?
i hope you don’t mind.
it’s just that i’m scared my heart will fall out of my guts
if i keep talking to you like this

because how do you say i love you without saying i love you?
“i miss you” is too general to be perceived as anything but platonic, isn’t it?
but “you matter to me” is too personal for my comfort,
and “you are my world” might just be too much
for the both of us

it’s not like i’m in love with you or anything,
i just think it’d be nice to feel your heart beating
against mine.
—but if the universe aligns...
vanessa ann Jan 2018
we are born of dust
we die along with the wind
skins within the spectrum of beige
blood the same crimson

minds apart,
hearts beating
as one
vanessa ann Mar 2020
if i were any good at songwriting,
perhaps i’d be like clairo,
and write about how soft you’ve made me feel,
or the gaping hole you left in my stomach that spells out
s-u-m-m-e-r

if i was any good at romance,
i’d have straight up told you
how cool you were
how cool your creations were
how cool it’d be if we hung out

even as my heart is ablaze,
like sunny hong kong,
the wind singing along,
you are wrong, so wrong,
for this


perhaps i could write a novel, then
of a forbidden love between two lovers
in a summer long, long
ago
except it’d be fiction,
but maybe i’d lie and preface it with:
“based on a true story”,
if it means making a blockbuster,
lover

so come on virginia,
i think we could do it if we tried…?
i love clairo and i loved you, at least a little bit
vanessa ann Apr 2020
what are you waiting for, little bird?
the day has just begun, there was an angel
at 5th street and she told me to say hi to you,
little bird. what’s your plan for today?

you cannot sit around and wait for a suitor to offer words of praise,
you must learn to sing your own.
you will not get a thousand retweets on that little bird app but you must
do, anyway. do, anyhow. do, do. i do.

i bear with me no key to help you flee
there will not be a kind knight to hear your plea

o little bird, remind me
of your plans of jailbreak last night, speak
to me, have you learned to bend metals with your beak?
will you set yourself free?
—release
vanessa ann Apr 2020
what they don’t tell you about funerals is that nothing ever feels real in that too-cold room. not the flowers. not the food. not the rooms in the back your uncles stayed in to keep watch. not the ill-fitting white t-shirt your father made you purchase yesterday. not the sad smile on your grandmother’s face instead of her usual bright ones. and certainly not the dead body of your grandfather in the epicenter, still as the corpse he is and none like the grandparent you grew up with.

there was no such thing as an open casket in your family, which was good, you suppose. it’d be too much to see his face without his usual frown. the smell was off. like tea and incense and flower petals—the ones you used to bathe the buddhist statues at the vihara every new year.

the catered pork ribs taste like sandpaper. you keep waiting for the buttery taste of your grandfather’s recipe to hit your tongue but you are met with msg. it was one of the many disappointments you encountered in those three days, three absences from school. none of your friends checked up on you further than to offer their “deepest condolences”. your crush has not texted you back. you drink bottled mineral water as your mother fights with your father, whose father had just died, again.

by the time the ceremony comes you are confronted with the gold of the casket up close. you wonder if it was real gold. a few hours ago your little cousins, yet to understand the concept of death, tugged at your sleeves and asked when grandpa would be home. you sealed your lips shut and let your younger cousin handle them like she always does. because you’re not ready to admit that you don’t understand death either; not in second grade when the dragonfly your classmates cruelly stomped on no longer flew, not even less than a month later, when your other grandfather passes.

you whisper words of prayer in the mother tongue you no longer remember. your cousin sheds a tear in front of you and you wonder if it’d be appropriate to console her now. you think about how much your kneecaps hurt from kneeling for a long time. your aunt’s cries perfectly masked the buzzing phone you sneaked into your pocket. later that night, your third uncle told everyone that he saw his father-in-law welcomed by guan yin herself; you wonder if it was true, or merely another lie adults tell kids and themselves to feel better about the nonsensical nature of mortality.

what they don’t tell you about funerals is how much like a fever dream they are. when the proceedings are over you drive straight home. home smells like home and your maid made your bed like usual. the stuffed bear on your pillow has not moved since the morning. it is 11 pm, and your mother yells at you to sleep soon because your grandfather may be a jar of ashes stored in vihara but you have school tomorrow. it is time to go to bed.
—when life goes on but a loved one's had come to a standstill
vanessa ann Feb 2018
i found myself last night whispering your name under the shield of my duvet, willing myself to pronounce every syllable of your name to the darkness of my room. i looked up to the plastic stars on my ceilings, remainders of the childhood i once had, and said it:

“yoon. jeong. han”

every syllable clear and true.

and it occurred to me,
how beautiful your name was.

“yoon” — the moon and the whistles of the wind, lulling me into dreamland.
“jeong” — a masculine edge.
and finally, the concluding “han” that returns it into its original softness.

clean milky way.

i’ve never expected to fall for a boy with your name. but i’ve always been fascinated with the universe and all the bright lights surrounding our blue planet. so i guess, it is only fitting for me to fall for a boy whose name means “clean milky way”

so i whispered your name over and over into the night.
yoon jeonghan.
yoon jeonghan.
yoon jeonghan.
until the taste of it becomes as familiar as the quiet.
and i swear, i saw the plastic stars on the ceiling growing brighter with every syllable.

i whispered and whispered until i fell into morpheus’ charm, and awoke with a new realization:

*your name is my favorite sound.
to the boy who made me feel

{or alternatively — "it's 3 in the morning and you still haunt my mind so i decided to write this piece i wouldn't call poetry and post it on a poetry website for hundreds to see"}

— The End —