Imagine the feeling she felt to find a wall in
the city. Pretend seeing this blockade: to wake up
and find your sense of self so rudely split
and blood blocked up by barriers of grit
and stone. Immured and trapped. The promenade
has now been pieced apart by guns and guards.
Though even this sensation wasn’t new –
to have her body broken into two –
this construct ripped a rift she could not pass,
with blades of sharp and rusty August grass.
Graffitied cracks through which poor souls have tried          to escape,
but none outrun the trauma of the past.

His hands seemed almost bizarre on the fork.
How can something so large handle something so small?
Did my mother's hand fit into his at all?
I wondered as he chewed up the dead pork.

"It does not taste right." He says as he takes another bite.
The blood is foaming from his open mouth.
"It is half-cooked and still fresh; the animal still tries.
to outrun his flesh. It is hard to bite and dry."

He tries to say as he swallows, even as it rots
He keeps just eating more. Then he slams the fork.
chants curses that would put a priest inside the morgue
I listen to him call God as I ponder about loving

In the black and white pictures, it existed.
where my mother's eyes still smiled
where her movements were not rehearsed
where she didn't have to keep the glass half full so it wouldn't burst

I see her in my reflection: a sad-eyed girl.
with a table filled with savory and sweet
But Mother, do we share this quiet rage when we eat?
You wish you could replace his head on the plate?

Mother, are you a good actress?
Do you keep knives under your dress?
Does your mind create images?
Where you pay off all the witnesses.

"Will you ever feed me something other than your tears?"
He shouts as he slams his fists.
and his hands make sounds
as loud as war bombs

We learned when to be quiet.
when to soak up all the silence
But, Mother, in your mind, is he still the head of the table?
Or just a head on the plate?

She is a sculptor, carefully molding
And just as precisely, she is folding.
Digs through the earth in search of sapphire eyes
Rips the wheat for hair, just like she desires.
When it finally speaks, the voice is weak.
"Breathe life in me; feelings are what I seek."
Oh, how perfect her strangest creation!
Broken fragments of imagination.

"You’re my blank page, I can fill with stories."
"The low whisper to hush all my worries"
First, she teaches it to dance, then how to
Sing, shows the color of the sky is blue.
Secondly, she shows the earth and the dead.
Rotting in the ground below, blood is red.
Also, color of love: never worry.
Learn to appreciate all the beauty.

On the third day, it longs to be free now.
Searching the dark, it was shown for a way out.
It screams, "I don’t belong to anyone."
"I am free as birds that fly toward dawn."
"I made you, showed you the world; stay faithful.
There’s no breaking free; don’t be ungrateful."
Now it sneaks out at night through the back door.
Freedom and chains are falling to the floor.

She is like flowing rivers, tracing maps.
can even travel seven continents
sculpts her own path with wood and bleeding hands
knows that there are harmless and harmful plants
She wants to stick her hand in them to feel.
thinks it would be nice after it to heal
Still now the blood drops, the footsteps grow strong.
She is forced back into her hole by bond.

For a sculptor loves its creation dearly.
just wants to tweak and work on it daily
Shall the potter be regarded as the clay too?
In her road for discovery, did she grow?
Can she let go of what she created?
Or clip its wings and lock all the cages?
My dear sculptor, let it go; let her roam.
She might just be the future's next grindstone.

As God, doubtful of her own creation
What if what her hand makes can conquer nations?
Does it not deserve to sculpt just as she?
To shake like earthquakes, scream like a banshee.
Let her go, let her go, it echoes now.
She stands back, no longer a sculptor but a guide.
The chisel drops from her shaking hand.
as the marble moves and bows her head.

The Unknown Tower
Quiet & deserted.
A way to the top
The elevator hums, rising.

I step out.
I open the door, enigmatic.
I close the door,
Turn the kn⁰b…

Instantaneously
The cold metal snaps in my hand!
I am locked out.

A voice
Deep Inside !
"Have a glance."

Down,
Down, down,
Down,
Down, down…

I peer over the edge—
Acrophobia strikes!

A war ignites between me
& my unknown ‘Someone.’

I hear the voice again
It is not mine.
Or is it?

I scramble, trying to fix the kn⁰b,
But that 'Someone'—
Powerful, cunning—
A puppet master, a gaslighter,
A shadow pulling the strings.

I can’t think anymore!
Thoughts crumble like shredded paper!
Or did ‘Someone’ crush them for me?

"Do a high dive to nowhere!
Do a high dive to nowhere!
Do a high dive to nowhere!"

The voice pounds like a drum.

Drive,
Drive, drive, drive, drive,
Drive, drive,
Drive…

"My bébé, drive."

Once again,
The table is yours.
The table is yours.

Step forward.
Hesitation wanders, the fear of loss.
Look down.
No acrophobia!

The tower does not end.
The fall never stops.

I turn
& there is no door.

Goodbye.
Will you die to find yourself?

Baseless turmoil I have carried
       for you was faithless.
Aged me fine in my youth
       groundless.
No longer I was more sure
      about the lore.
No doubt it was offshore,
     I have to build my own floor.

The plate sits before me, brimming with light,
Yet I cannot partake in this feast of life.
The hunger is not born of flesh,
But a deep, gnawing void that swallows the soul.

It’s not that I lack—
But I recoil from the feast,
For each bite is a confrontation,
A war within my own skin,
An agonizing surrender to the unknown.

The world, a banquet of joy and color,
Serves me courses of hope and grace,
But I cannot consume what is offered.
Each morsel of love, each chance for joy,
I push away,
As if to touch it would fracture me further,
Unravel what little control I still feign to hold.

I starve not for food,
But for the courage to feast on life,
To swallow what is real,
Without fear that it will choke me,
Without fear that it will swallow me whole.

In the quiet spaces of my mind,
I am a ghost,
Floating above this world I once craved.
I am too numb to reach,
Too paralyzed to feel the warmth of the sun,
And so I exist—
Not living, not dying,
But simply suspended in this vast, unyielding void,
Where every dream is a phantom,
Every hope a cruel illusion,
And I am forever starving,
Yet unable to taste the life I’ve lost.

Math is where we first met
I observed you from my seat,

Occasionally glancing at the door
Thought you were cute and cool

Oh no, you caught me staring!
Then... things took a weird turn
Suddenly you started reeling
As if having diarrhea and burn
Like a fish out of water, uneasy
While miming weirdly at me

Your eyes pointed at my paper,
Then a series of stupid motions
I had to lip read; you said “answer”
You gestured to copy my solution

Oh crap! Stop goading me please…
My emotions, bordered love and hate

Infatuation, now, transitioned to regret
You ignited an inner battle I can’t take

My grades here weren’t that high!
God, I’m no good with numbers!
I tried protesting, but your eyes…
They were pleading… I surrendered

Burning Bridges
Why does one burn bridges?
A tactful retreat might include warding off pursuers
But in a quarrel among friends
Why burn the bridge?
Time may turn enemy to friend in the end
So why would you break instead of bend
A tender heart rendered difficult to tend
Defended by barbs, but unable to mend

— — — — — — — — — — —

This poem came to me in a conflict with a friend, and for me highlighted how important it is to keep the long-term view in mind no matter how activated we are or how immediate and urgent the conflict may seem. No interaction happens in a vacuum, and every situation can be thought of as part of an infinite game that we will likely return to at some point in time.
When keeping the fullness of the view, our actions and words will better align with a skillful and centered approach. We may even come to the conclusion that in most circumstances, life is not about winning or losing, but about playing the most beautiful game.

Gratitude,success

Those two words

Had been thrown idly

Through decades freely

Could be in a form of morsel

Or fortune ,family  or health

But its also the will to breath

At every dawn

To forgive or to love your figure

To stand or fall

To cry or to chuckle

To speak or be mute

The mediocre of it alone

Is another thing to pounder